


The Tide of Breathing

by luminaryestuary



Category: Stranger Things (TV 2016)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Angst alert, But There Will Eventually Be Happiness, F/M, Handmaid's Tale AU, I Blame Tumblr, I Mean... Pretty Slow, Slow Burn, and i mean MAJOR ANGST
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-10
Updated: 2018-09-12
Packaged: 2019-05-20 18:12:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 21
Words: 31,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14899475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luminaryestuary/pseuds/luminaryestuary
Summary: She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.Maybe someone will listen.Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.





	1. one.

 

 

They come for her on a bright, clear November day.

She should be surprised, but she isn’t. There’d been many, many whispers preceding their arrival — whispers traveling up the highways, winding through all the small and rural towns until they’d reached her ears.

There were so many other signs preceding the whispers.

Two of the major national news networks going dark, the third flickering like a candle, most broadcasts unable to be trusted.

Piles and piles of books, all aflame in front of the Hawkins library, black smoke rising into a black sky.

An attempt to make a withdrawal at the bank last week, only to be refused — “I can’t do that for you, Mrs. Byers. I’m sorry. Change of policy, nationwide thing.”

She’d buried her head, because there were other things to worry about — protecting her sons and keeping them safe, trying to keep things _normal_ , or something like it.

But what’s normal anymore?

Some of the families in Hawkins had fled in the middle of the night, left everything behind; clothing on the lines, cars in the driveway, even food on the table.

A pair of soldiers — Angels of the New Republic — enters Melvald’s, dressed head to toe in black body armor, large guns casually slung over their shoulders. They wear helmets and dark goggles and balaclavas; she can’t see their faces, and their presence sinks a leaden weight into her stomach. Her knees go weak, knocking against each other.

She looks to Donald, desperately, pleadingly, but he refuses to make eye contact with her.

The Angels flank her, one on each side. She’s led out of the store, still dressed in her work vest, trembling and pale.

She joins at least two dozen other women in the center of town, in front of the police station.

Claudia. Leah. Anne. Cynthia. Janet.

They stare at one another, speechless, with ashen faces and lips pressed tightly together.

They are all sheep, and they’re being led to slaughter.

That’s what this is, isn’t it?

The Angels direct them towards an armored transport; an old city bus that has been painted black, the windows covered by plates of steel.

She wants to cry when she sees it, but strangely, no tears come; instead she curls her fingers into fists, trying to will the shaking to cease.

“Please—” she says to one of the Angels. “P-please. I have kids. I’m a single mother. Please. I need— I need to see them.”

He looks at her, at least she thinks he does. She can’t tell.

“They’ll be taken care of,” he says coldly.

“W-what? How?” she asks, her voice so quiet and meek compared to the screaming, wailing anguish inside her head.

“It’s not your place to worry about it.”

The words lash at her like a whip, stinging.

They’re led past a crowd of onlookers, drawing ever closer to the transport — a black hole that will swallow her alive and wipe all traces of her away.

The other women walk with their heads down, but she holds her chin high, stares back at the gawking people.

When she sees Lonnie among them, standing at the front and smirking at her, everything falls into place.

Fury rages inside of her like a storm; she pushes past one of the Angels, lunges for her ex-husband. Her arms are caught, twisted painfully, but that doesn’t stop her from spitting in his face.

“Asshole,” she hisses. “You did this, you miserable fucking asshole!”

He wipes the spittle off his cheek, smiles at her as she’s tugged away, and then she’s forced into the muted darkness of the transport.

Inside it smells like urine and sweat and desperation. The only noises she can hear are soft sobs, murmured whispers of prayer.

She rests her head against the wall, closes her eyes.

Thinks about Jonathan and Will, her chest tight with a million silent tears.

She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons.

Prays for the other women here with her.

Prays for herself.

She repeats the words in her mind, over and over; tries to fight the defeated exhaustion that’s spreading through her body.

Maybe someone will listen.

 

* * *

  

The next time she sees daylight, she is far away from Hawkins.

The transport bus had traveled for hours and hours — how many hours, she cannot say. She’d dozed fitfully on the metal floor for many of them, her back aching and her limbs pulled tightly into her.

None of the women had been permitted to talk to each other. One woman tried, only to be knocked out with the buttstock of a rifle, the sickening crunch of broken bone echoing in the tight space.

After that, none of them dared to cry or even breathe too loudly.

They’re herded out of the transport, shivering in the cold air, their breath coming in frozen clouds. Snow lies like a thick blanket on the ground, and none of them are dressed for this weather.

Ahead of them is a brick building, both familiar and strange. It looks like an old school, and would otherwise be obscure and unnoticeable, but it’s surrounded by two layers of fence, topped with barbed wire.

She has the strongest sense of foreboding upon seeing it for the first time.

She doesn’t know what awaits inside, but she starts shaking again — perhaps this is where she will be unmade, her very existence buried and forgotten. She’s heard about women being taken — women like her — spirited away in the middle of the night and never seen again.

She’d told herself that would never happen, not to her.

Eventually they are gathered in a large room. Sitting here with all these familiar and unfamiliar faces, she realizes that it’s worse than she could’ve ever imagined.

They all watch each other, their eyes wide and bloodshot.

Women are called, one by one, into smaller rooms behind brown doors.

Angels stand guard silently, unmoving. Even inside, they wear their dark goggles.

Joyce wonders why.

There is hushed murmuring from beyond the waiting room, occasionally the staccato burst of weeping, but other than that, no sounds can be clearly heard.

The women called back don’t return to the waiting room.

She sits in a hard plastic chair, twisting the hem of her shirt through her fingers.

They call her back, but not by name — by pointing at her, summoning her like a child.

She stands, numbly walks through an open door into a white room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Title comes from "Cherry Wine" by Hozier.


	2. two.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Three men and one woman sit at a long table opposite her. They are of varying ages. There is a tape recorder in the middle of the table.

Joyce watches the reels spin around and around.

“Please state your name for the record.”

She doesn’t want to, but fear compels her. “Um, my name is— my name is Joyce. Joyce Byers.”

“How old are you?”

“I— I’m thirty-eight years old.”

“Thank you, Joyce. Now, can you please tell us about your health and reproductive history?”

“I, uh… what?”

A cough, an impatient clearing of the throat.

“Do you have any children?”

“Yes. I, uh— yes. I have children,” she says. “Two boys.” Memories, so many memories, flicker through her mind; she pushes them away.

There is a soft murmuring among the four.

“Two sons? Good, good.”

“Yes, very good.” The woman twirls a pencil in her fingers. She has long silver hair, blue eyes like ice.

“How were the pregnancies? Did you experience any difficulties?”

“They were, um— they were fine,” Joyce says hastily. “I had no issues giving birth. No c-sections.”

God, she could use a cigarette right now — something, anything to quell the tremor in her hands.

“That’s also good to hear,” one of the men says. He looks like a fox; red hair and light brown eyes, freckles dotting his cheeks.

“Are there any present health issues that you are aware of? Anything that could affect fertility?”

There’s a sudden tidal wave of understanding at this question.

It washes over her, through her, freezes her insides.

Joyce isn’t sure how she should answer, her mind whips round and round—

“Great,” she hears herself say. “I’m in great health. Nothing to complain about.”

“Do you smoke or drink?”

“No,” she lies, surprised at how easily the lie slips past her lips. Normally she’s a terrible liar. “No, I don’t.”

“Excellent.” The man who appears to be in charge smiles at her, but it doesn’t touch his eyes. His hair is white, somewhat long, but he doesn’t look old. “You’ll undergo a thorough examination by our medical staff in the coming weeks. They’ll be able to confirm the state of your reproductive health, and give a full report upon completion. It’s very important to us that your wellbeing is as close to perfect as possible.”

Joyce doesn’t know how to respond, so she doesn’t; she just nods weakly.

“Should everything go according to plan,” he continues, “you’ll be one of the first in our little… experiment. We think it’s going to work quite well. This country is long overdue for some strict order. No more chaos — much too messy, of course.”

His voice is equal parts smooth — like he’s talking to a colleague — and menacing, as if he’s scolding a disobedient child.

It makes her skin crawl.

She swallows the bile rising in her throat, suppresses every disgusted feeling and thought with all her might. She decides, right at that precise moment, that no matter what they have planned for her, she is determined to withstand, survive.

Joyce Byers will not be unmade or wiped away.

“Of course,” she says brightly. Her tone sounds utterly false to her own ears, but she doesn’t care. She smiles. “I completely agree. Chaos is no way to live.”

“You’re on the same page then,” he says, and now he’s actually, truly smiling back at her. He’d be attractive if she wasn’t so deathly afraid of him. “Wonderful.”

Wonderful indeed.

 

* * *

 

Many of the women are housed in an old gymnasium. The windows are covered. The walls have been hastily painted chalk white — blank, barren. Devoid of emotion. 

This building had probably been a high school at some point.

It reminds Joyce of her teenage years in Hawkins; reminds her of warm autumn days when they played basketball and badminton, their sneakers scuffing against the polished wood floor.

There are forty women in the gymnasium. More reside in the library, the cafeteria. She’d caught glimpses those rooms during the treks outside, twice daily, for their walks around the old track.

They sleep on army cots that are straight out of a 1940s wartime infirmary. The blankets are scratchy wool, musty.

Joyce is separated from all the other women that were taken from Hawkins, leaving her with only strangers; strangers who are fearful, with tight lips and downcast eyes.

There are three women that maintain order in the gymnasium; the one with the most power is a woman who calls herself Aunt Connie. She has a severe face and severe blue eyes, with platinum blonde hair that’s cut into a severe bob. She and the other two women patrol at night, following the sounds of whispers between cots, fingers closing tightly around cattle prods.

There isn’t a shred of privacy in this awful place — even the bathroom stalls have no doors. The shower is completely open and communal, once part of a locker room. It smells faintly of mildew and sweat and antiseptic chemicals.

Joyce lies awake the first night, listening to the breathing, snoring, quiet crying that echoes off the high ceiling.

She thinks about Will and Jonathan, her chest aching.

Tears track down her cheeks until they disappear into her hair, and soak into the pillow.

She hopes they’re okay.

 

* * *

 

Over the next several days, she is subjected to many medical exams, tests, and other procedures. Most of them are uncomfortable and invasive, but even when she protests it falls on deaf ears.

It’s as if her voice has vanished, leaving her with no way of communicating.

After the third and fourth instances of a nurse being too rough and a doctor being much too cavalier with a pelvic exam, she bites her lip and holds everything inside herself; begins to construct a dam that cannot break.

She must never break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. The plot thickens (slightly). There are a few characters from both universes in here.


	3. three.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Weeks pass. Months, maybe.

She doesn’t know how long it’s been, exactly. There are no clocks, no calendars.

Every day has a strict routine, because there are so many Lessons to be learned.

 _These aren’t lessons_ , Joyce thinks, quietly laughing to herself. _It’s all brainwashing. Total bullshit_.

Aunt Connie leads these Lessons, her two subordinates (Aunt Lydia and Aunt Gemma) also jumping in to “teach” from time to time.

She claims that there is a new order to the world — one that they must learn so that they can seamlessly fit in and perform their new roles to the best of their abilities.

“It will be the hardest for your generation,” she says. “Because your generation will remember what it was like.”

 _Of course we will,_ Joyce thinks. _We’ll remember because you’ve taken everything from us._

 

* * *

  

Every woman kept captive in the school wears a white dress, a white underskirt, and white stockings; even their undergarments are white.

White for purity.

White for virtue.

White for innocence.

 

* * *

 

New women arrive one day, during what Joyce guesses to be late February.

There are only four, but they are shaking, pale and afraid.

Joyce feels for them, empathy forming a sour pit in her stomach. She remembers what it was like to be new, lost, confused.

One of the new women takes the empty cot next to hers. She has dirty blonde hair, hazel eyes, and classically beautiful features.

The next morning, Joyce rolls over and finds that the new woman is looking right at her.

“What’s your name?” the woman whispers, eyes wide in the dim light.

“Joyce.”

“I’m Terry.”

“Nice to meet you, Terry,” Joyce says, and her own words sound foreign, like another language.

“What is this place?” Terry asks.

Joyce stares at her, presses her lips into a thin line.

“It’s hell,” she says finally. “This is hell.”

  

* * *

 

Joyce and Terry become friends.

They sit next to each other during Lessons, in their nearly identical white dresses.

They whisper to each other in the dead of night, half lip reading, half murmuring, hushed words hanging in the space between their cots.

“Do you have kids?” Terry asks one evening, when there is still enough light in the room to see.

“Two,” Joyce replies. “Both boys. Jonathan and Will. Jonathan’s the oldest.”

“I have a daughter,” Terry says. “Her name is Jane.”

“That’s a pretty name.”

“I thought so too.”

Terry pauses, reaches into her pillowcase. She withdraws something and hands it to Joyce.

It’s a photograph, a sacred relic of a time from before. Contraband. Illegal.

Framed in the center is a smiling little girl with tight brown curls, her brown eyes lit up with joy.

Joyce squints at the photo, takes in all the details that she can.

It feels so incredibly forbidden, looking at this picture of someone else’s child.

“She’s beautiful,” she says.

“What happened to your boys?”

“I don’t know. Their father was—” Joyce stops short, composes herself. “Their father was there on the day that I was taken. They're probably with him now.”

Her voice is bitter. She meets Terry’s eyes in the dark. There is no pity, only understanding.

“I was forced to come here too,” Terry says, her lips curving into a scowl. “Jane and I were almost to Canada. He took her from me.”

“Who took her from you?”

Terry looks away.

Joyce reaches across the gap between their cots, rests her hand on Terry’s arm.

“They're just— they’re just a bunch of goddamn _bastards_ ,” she whispers, swallowing hard against the lump in her throat.

Terry looks at her again.

“Don’t let the bastards grind you down,” she whispers back, covering Joyce’s hand with her own, a thin smile on her face.

It’s an odd phrase, but it sounds rebellious, hopeful.

“Never,” Joyce swears.

It’s a promise, one of the very few things she’s able to keep right now.

A promise to Terry, a promise to herself.

She stores it away, holds it deep down inside, in a place where only she can find it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I've always wanted Terry and Joyce to interact! So I'm going to write it myself. Haha.


	4. four.

 

 

Time continues to pass, the days beginning to blend into one another.

Each month moves more quickly than the previous one.

The Lessons become more intricate, more complicated.

Society is now divided, neatly labeled and dissected into new social classes.

There are the Commanders of the Faithful and their Wives, the very top of the pecking order. Who they were before doesn’t matter; now they are holy leaders in a New Republic that has been ordained by God. Their word must never be questioned.

There are the Angels of the New Republic, the new military. Soldiers and Enforcers of the True Way of Living.

There are the Guardians, peacekeepers that exist a step down from the Angels, but carry out the same Mission.

There are the Marthas, old or infertile women assigned to run the homes of the Commanders and the Angels.

Finally, there are the Handmaids, the most holy and cherished. They are assigned to the homes of the Commanders and Angels for one specific purpose — to become pregnant by the man of the house and carry his child until birth, wherein she is reassigned to another home.

Every woman in the school is to become a Handmaid, to serve the Republic.

Their services are valued above even those of the Commanders. Aunt Lydia stresses this ad nauseam.

“You will be the bearers of a new fruit for the Republic,” they’re told. “The fruit of a holy generation, strong and unified under one message, one glorious purpose.”

This is why they want her healthy, scrubbed clean and rinsed pure by the spirit of their mission.

She’s no longer a person of her own right — she’s been stripped of all that.

She is merely a vessel now, unwilling and unwanting.

Voiceless, powerless. Exalted above all.

In the dead of night, Joyce presses a hand to her abdomen; digs her fingers into the skin there, suppresses the violent urge to scream and scream.

  

* * *

 

 At least a year has gone by when women begin to leave the school.

That’s what it feels like, anyway. Joyce had lost count of the days long ago.

The Aunts approach women at random, always in a trio. The women in question leave with the Aunts, and they don’t return.

Joyce and Terry whisper to each other every night, fervently now, nearly silent words flying between them. 

“How much longer do you think we have?” Terry mutters one evening.

“Not long,” Joyce replies. “Four more left today.”

Terry glances at the empty cots around them. “Do you think more will come? Take our places?”

“Yeah.”

There’s a lengthy silence before Terry whispers again. “I feel like I’m too old for this pregnancy shit.”

“Me too.”

“What if I do get pregnant? I don't want to go through it again,” she says. “I almost died with Jane.”

“Really?”

“Yeah. I hemorrhaged. Lost a lot of blood. Needed like, three transfusions, or something.” She hums for a moment. “I didn’t tell them that, though.”

“Of course not,” Joyce says. “There’s nothing better than getting knocked up for Jesus.”

Terry turns her face into her pillow, snorts quietly with laughter.

She has a dark sense of humor. Joyce likes that.

There’s so little for them to laugh about anymore.

 

* * *

 

The Aunts come for Terry the next day. Her departure is quick and unceremonious. They mouth “goodbye” at each other, and then she’s gone.

That night, Joyce reaches across the space between the cots, tucks her hand into Terry's pillowcase.

The photograph of Jane is still there, hidden from the Aunts, from the world.

She hides the photo in her sleeve, not really knowing why, but not questioning it.

Joyce stares at the empty cot, the familiar ache of loss sitting fresh in her chest.

No tears come.

Loss is common now, more natural than breathing.

 

* * *

 

Joyce is given her assignment two days later.

Aunt Connie approaches her, flanked by Aunt Lydia and Aunt Gemma.

“Come, sister,” Aunt Connie says. Her smile is razor sharp. “You’ve been chosen for your first assignment.”

There is a palpable sort of energy emanating from the three Aunts as she follows them from the gymnasium.

Joyce feels the heat of many pairs of eyes on her as she leaves, wills herself to keep her gaze straight ahead. She holds the photograph of Jane in her palm, folded into quarters, prays that the Aunts won’t look too closely at her clenched fist.

They take her to what must have been the teacher’s lounge at one point.

It’s a dimly lit interior room. There are no windows to let in sunlight. The walls are wood paneling, the carpet frayed. It smells like stale coffee and cigarettes.

She stops breathing momentarily when she sees the dress.

It hangs, unassuming, on a mannequin.

It’s red, the color of blood, the color of life.

The color that highlights her distinction in this new world.

Her neck prickles as she runs a finger along a pleat in the skirt. The fabric is thick, plain, with no detail.

“You’ll be going to one of the high Commanders,” Aunt Lydia says proudly. “I always knew you would.”

“He’s an interesting man, one of our best and most dedicated,” Aunt Gemma adds. “A bit gruff, but that’s to be expected. He’s a widower. His Wife and child passed away before the New Republic came to be. Car accident. Such a tragedy.” She tsks, shaking her head sadly.

“The Ceremonies should go very smoothly with him, he’s still quite young,” Aunt Lydia says thoughtfully. “I expect that you'll fulfill your obligations on your first assignment. You’re very fortunate.” She begins to speak again, but Aunt Connie shoots her a withering glare, and her mouth snaps shut.

Joyce says nothing as the three women strip her down out of her white dress, help her slip into the red one. It has full length sleeves and a concealing bodice that hides any hint of a shape or curve.

There is only one mirror in the room, tall and narrow. It hangs on the wall. She stands in front of it as Aunt Connie ties a white winged bonnet around her head, hiding her face, restricting her peripheral vision — to avoid seeing, and being seen.

The photo of Jane, now tucked into one sleeve, burns a hole in her skin.

Joyce stares at her reflection, taking in the sight of her new shackles.

She supposes that she should feel something, anything, but she feels nothing at all.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Ah, now we're getting more into the plot. Things are going to be getting interesting from here on in...  
> ii. I know this is a Stranger Things/Handmaid's AU but I've taken some liberties with details from both universes.  
> iii. I actually haven't seen much of the Handmaid's Tale TV show. I've just read the book, so it will more loosely follow the book universe.


	5. five.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Two Angels collect her from the school.

They do not wear masks or goggles. One is tall and slender, pale and baby-faced. The other is shorter, stockier, dark-skinned with dark, expressive eyes.

They are both somber, their features tightly drawn, composed.

They take their place in the front seats of a town car, while she sits alone in the back seat. There is a tinted glass partition that separates them.

She must never fraternize with any man other than who she’s been assigned to. To do so is sinful, improper, a heinous breach of protocol.

It’s also lonely, an isolation of the cruelest kind.

Joyce folds her hands in her lap, looks out the window and watches the scenery outside pass by. The bare trees and rural surroundings are distinctly unfamiliar.

It seems to be winter, but there isn’t much snow on the ground, so they’re either at the tail-end of autumn or the very beginning of spring. It’s difficult to tell, actually, and the realization of that difficulty strikes her as hard as a physical blow.

Tracking the passage of time is something that she’d taken for granted all her life — but here she is, in doubt of her own senses, unable to figure out where she stands in the course of the year.

That kind of knowledge had been forbidden to her — up until now, anyway.

Everything seems more real outside of the school, more crisply defined in the harsh light.

There are very few signs of human life along the winding country road, only the briefest glimpses of houses, or what used to be houses.

Most of them are piles of charred rubble, splintered blackened bones reaching to the sky.

The hollowed out ghosts of these former dwellings fill her with intense dread, other emotions she can’t even put names to — primal emotions that tell her to get out of the car and run, run far away and never look back.

As awful as the school had been, she’d been safely cocooned in a bubble, shielded from the vast majority of violence and fighting to establish the new order of this world.

After a few hours, houses (whole, intact, filled with life) suddenly begin to become more common. So do Angels and Guardians, patrolling in pairs on street corners, both on foot and on horseback.

They pull up to a large, stately brick home on the outer edge of a large town, easily twice the size of Hawkins. It reminds Joyce of New England; maybe somewhere in Massachusetts, if the state still exists.

The Angels exit the car — the shorter one retrieves her bag (red, of course), and the taller one opens the back door.

He does not touch her or offer assistance, but he smiles at her. His eyes are kind — pitying, maybe. It’s been so long since she’s seen a man that his facial expressions seem strangely foreign.

She briefly ponders this, an acidic taste on her tongue.

She doesn’t want his pity.

 

* * *

 

Joyce approaches front door of the home, carefully keeping her face neutral.

Inside of her, the waters behind the dam rage, storm-tossed and furious.

The door swings open before she’s finished knocking, revealing a short, portly woman. She looks to be in her sixties and is dressed in green — a Martha. The color is not unlike a surgeon’s gown, from before everything changed.

Her dark hair is streaked with gray and white, and though she wears glasses with thick lenses, her eyes are bright behind them.

“Captains Powell, Callahan, you may leave us,” the Martha says politely, her hands clasped together at her waist. Her voice is slightly gravelly; possibly from years of smoking.

The Angels dutifully obey her, leaving the bag next to Joyce on the doorstep.

“Please come in.” The Martha beckons her inside, gesturing.

Joyce picks up her bag and her skirt, stepping over the threshold into a strange home with a strange smell and strange decor.

“My name is Florence. I run the household. I’m afraid the Commander isn’t currently home, but he should return in the next few days.” The older woman smiles at her, but her expression is devoid of pity. This smile seems forced, almost strained, as if she knows something that she isn’t willing to divulge. “I’ll show you to your room.”

Joyce bows her head. “Thank you.”

Florence leads her up the stairs, across the landing, opens the door to a white room with white linens and a white carpet. There’s a queen-sized bed, a chair, and a small closet.

The ceilings are high, vaulted.

There’s a solitary window, overlooking the long front drive, without curtains or drapes.

The room is spotless, as cold and barren as winter.

Joyce puts down her bag on the floor and looks around, her stomach twisted uncomfortably.

White is beginning to become quite exhausting.

 

* * *

 

Joyce wanders through the hallways that afternoon and evening, taking everything in, avoiding any rooms with closed doors.

The house is so enormous, so luxurious that she assumes it must have been some kind of estate or mansion prior to the fall of the United States.

She wonders what happened to the family that lived here before; runs her fingers along the glossy wooden banister as she descends the grand staircase into the open, two-story foyer.

On the first floor, there are two sitting rooms, a large formal dining room, a study (the Commander’s, and never to be entered), a nice-sized, modern kitchen, and two powder rooms.

Out in the backyard is large garden, currently dormant and lifeless (Florence tells her that it will be spring very soon, and Joyce finally understands where in the year she is). They are to plant vegetables when the weather gets a bit more seasonable.

Far beyond the garden, out along the edge of the property, is a series of buildings.

They look brand new, constructed recently. The glass windows reflect the setting sun, tinted with orange, yellow and pink.

Florence stands beside her, looks out towards the buildings.

“They’re barracks,” she says impassively. “For the next generation of Angels, the new recruits.” She pauses, seems to consider her next words. ”The Commander is very involved with the military.”

Joyce stares blankly at the barracks; remembers being rounded up in Hawkins, all the sheep being herded to slaughter.

“Are they there now?” she asks, her voice so small, smaller than it’s ever been.

“Soon,” Florence hums, peering over the rims of her glasses. “Soon.”

 

* * *

  

The first night, she dreams of Jonathan and Will, but not as they are in the present — in her dreams, they’re children again, small and innocent and pure.

Each of them holds one of her hands as they run, run as fast as they can.

Behind them is a creeping blackness; dark shadowy tendrils that stretch forward past their feet.

She’s wearing her ridiculous red dress. It slows her down, makes her strides labored and heavy.

Eventually they’re cornered.

She hides Jonathan and Will behind her red skirt, but it’s too late — the monsters, men dressed in black armor, reach behind her and pluck her children away.

They cry out for her and then they’re gone.

The color of her dress stains her hands, the redness as dark and thick as blood.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Finally, we meet some of the other players from Stranger Things... :)  
> ii. Whoops, got a little dark at the end there... D: I've been in a very sad mood after the last few days, with real-life news/politics... sigh.


	6. six.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Florence summons her to the kitchen early next morning. Together they don white aprons and knead dough for bread, peel the skin from vegetables, dust powdered sugar over small cakes made of expensive almond paste.

“For the Wife of Commander Owens,” Florence explains. “She’s very sick.”

She reminds Joyce that she has a new name, a name that must always be used in public and at home, a name that doesn’t fit quite right in her mouth.

Ofjames.

Of James, because she belongs to the Commander now.

She doesn’t know his full name, or anything else about him, really — but among the numbness in her chest, a small, bitter flower blooms for him.

His name is known. Acknowledged by other people. Repeated aloud.

“Chin up, hon,” Florence says suddenly. “It’s not so bad, really. You’ll see.”

Joyce says nothing, just focuses on kneading the dough over and over, tells herself that as long as she breathes, she will never be unmade. 

She still has her name, even if she can only hear it inside her head.

 

* * *

 

The next day, Florence sends her to do the shopping. She tears out coupons from a book. The paper is thick, colorful cardstock, printed with pictures of items required for the household.

She hands them to Joyce with disdain, her lips pursed like she’s just sucked on a lemon.

Apples. Chicken. Carrots. Eggs.

Joyce blinks at the coupons before tucking them into the sleeve of her red cloak.

Beef. Cucumbers. Potatoes.

Women are no longer allowed to read or write, so they’re patronized with pictures.

 _Reading and writing encourage ideas_ , Aunt Connie says in her head, _and women with ideas are why this country has fallen so far._

Bullshit. It’s so much bullshit.

She’s momentarily furious at the helplessness, hopelessness of it all.

“Make sure you get a lean cut of beef,” Florence instructs, her voice cutting through the fog of inner turmoil. “Last time I went into town, they gave me a hard time about it, the cheapskates.”

“Of course.” Joyce swallows the sudden surge of anger, allows a small, pleasant smile to form instead.

Florence pauses to look at her, and Joyce has a momentary sensation of being laid bare — as if every emotion she’s currently experiencing is being scrutinized and thoroughly cataloged.

“You’ll be walking with another Handmaid. Ofsam will be waiting for you at the back gate. You’d better hurry.”

“Yes ma’am.”

 

* * *

 

Joyce meets with the other Handmaid near the back gate, a striking vision of red.

Their twin dresses nearly glow in the sunlight. It feels utterly surreal.

“Ofjames?” the Handmaid asks.

“Yes,” Joyce answers.

They peer at each other from under their bonnets, both scarcely breathing.

“I’m Ofsam,” the other woman says. She has brown eyes and curly, dirty blonde hair that is just barely visible beneath her bonnet.

Her eyes look strikingly familiar, so familiar that it hurts.

Joyce has a momentary flash, a memory of Terry staring back at her in the shadows of the gymnasium.

It can’t be.

There’s no possible way.

“What’s wrong?” Ofsam asks, curious. She tilts her head just so, and Joyce is hit with another flash of memory.

“Nothing,” she lies. “It’s nothing.”

 

* * *

  

They journey into town together, neither really speaking, their gazes focused on the ground.

“We’ll stick out like sore thumbs,” Ofsam quietly tells her. “Just try to ignore it.”

Everyone around them is dressed in hues of gray, black, navy blue.

There are hardly any women out and about — the occasional Martha crosses their path, and they even pass another couple of Handmaids, but those encounters are unusual.

Joyce glances at people with what little peripheral vision she has left, observing their features, their expressions, their mannerisms.

In her other life, her life before this, people-watching had been a hobby of hers; something to help pass the time when Melvald’s was slow.

Even at the school, she’d never given it up — she’d memorized the Aunts’ patrols and break times at night, learned when she could whisper to Terry and when she had bite her words back into silence.

It eventually becomes obvious, an emerging pattern among chaos, that everyone turns in their direction — just as Ofsam had said they would.

She’d spent the past year feeling trapped, cornered, subdued beyond measure, but here — walking among the many pairs of eyes that watch her pass by — here, she feels distinctly powerful. 

Powerful despite the shackles of her dress, the color that binds her to a singular purpose.

It’s a strange dichotomy.

She wonders if the dizziness of it will ever subside.

  

* * *

 

On the morning of the third day, Joyce is in her room, smoothing the creases out of her dress and slipping into her flat, red shoes.

She hears the front door of the house open, the hinges squeaking slightly. There are two distinctly male voices discussing something heatedly, and when there’s a brief pause, a third voice — Florence — pipes up.

“Welcome home, Commander. There’s news for you in the study.”

He says something loudly, quickly, but Joyce doesn’t quite catch it. The deep timber of his voice reverberates through the house.

She can tell that he’s agitated, but something about him sounds eerily familiar, reminiscent of years long gone.

The second male voice, slightly higher-pitched, mutters something inaudible, and then the front door slams shut.

There’s a nervous fluttering in her stomach and a rush of blood in her ears, but she slips out of her room, her feet silent on the carpet in the hallway.

Slowly, quietly, she approaches the balcony that overlooks the foyer — places her palms flat along the railing and leans forward until she can see past it.

The Commander is tall and broad, with dark blonde hair that is cut short and swept back from his face. There is a slightly thinning patch of it near the back of his head, but it’s expertly covered, only visible from above.

He wears a crisp, navy dress uniform; the jacket is decorated with a variety of different badges and stripes, indicating his status and rank. She can’t quite see what he looks like, as he’s bent forward slightly, arms crossed across a wide chest. Florence is talking with him in hushed tones, the words too quiet to discern.

Joyce holds her breath, her lungs aching and ears straining.

Icy coldness settles deep in her belly.

This is the man that she belongs to now.

He’s real, flesh and blood and living, standing only eight feet below her. If she could just lean over a few more inches, she could spit on that perfect hair—

Florence suddenly glances up at the balcony, and gestures toward Joyce, who is half hidden in the shadows there.

The Commander lifts his gaze and meets hers directly, and she sees it in his face — a brief flicker of unmistakable recognition.

She knows those eyes.

Her heart plummets into free fall.

She’s always known those eyes.

Joyce finds herself staring back at him for several tense seconds, blinking, willing him to be someone else, anyone else.

He opens his mouth to say something, but she turns abruptly on one foot and disappears back into her white, white bedroom — huddles herself on the bed, tucks her feet beneath her red skirt as hot tears blur her vision.

After so many months without crying, it feels like a sin to lose her composure, but it tears itself away from her, wrenches itself free.

The resulting pain is too much to bear, so she lets it surround her, momentarily drown her it its depths.

  

* * *

 

The Commander is James Hopper, and she’s known him all her life.

He was “Jimmy” with sandy blonde hair and freckles when they were kids together, his cheeks pudgy with baby fat and his eyes kind.

Then he was “Jim” who grew almost four inches in one year when they were in middle school, clumsy and lanky and lumbering and her very best friend in the world.

Finally he was “Hopper”, who grew taller still, filled out and drove a blue GTO and loved her as fiercely as she’d loved him when they dated in high school and after graduation.

He’d left Hawkins long ago, drafted into the Army at nineteen and shipped off to fight in the Vietnam War.

Hopper had taken to military life easily, almost too easily — he ended up disappearing behind the front lines, often falling off the face of the planet for months at a time during his reconnaissance patrols in Vietnam.

Eventually his letters had stopped coming, and she'd reluctantly decided to move on.

She’d ended up dating and then marrying Lonnie Byers after he’d gotten her pregnant when she was twenty-one — a colossal mistake in hindsight — but the failed marriage had given her Jonathan and Will, her two amazing and intelligent boys.

Hopper had never come back to Hawkins, choosing instead to stay in the Army and move up the ranks after the United States had withdrawn from Vietnam. The last she’d heard, he’d settled down with a wife and family near a joint military base in central New Jersey.

 _He’s an interesting man, one of our best and most dedicated_ , Aunt Gemma says, somewhere in the recesses of her mind. _He’s a widower. His Wife and child passed away before the New Republic came to be. Such a tragedy._

They’d completely lost touch somewhere among the hectic days of their very different lives — so many words left unspoken.

She’d thought of him many times over the years, and now he’s here, mere heartbeats away from her; the supreme ruler of the prison that she’s trapped in.

Joyce exists without agency, without power; Hopper exists with every last bit of it.

She doesn’t know if he’s changed; doesn’t know if he’s still a good man or if he’s been twisted by the order of this new world.

How she will even face him, let alone submit to him for the Ceremony that’s required to take place every month?

It’s all so cosmically unfair, a cruel twist of the knife.

“Goddammit,” she whispers, clutching at the sheets, twisting them between her fingers.

The darkness of all the years between them reaches out for her.

Joyce closes her eyes and turns away from it; allows the numbness to settle back into place, ease itself into the momentary cracks in her facade.

She reminds herself that she must never break.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Ah... finally the build-up has resulted in something!  
> ii. I said this in a comment on the last chapter, but I absolutely adore Joyce (and Winona Ryder) because she is so strong, and she reminds me so much of Offred from the original Handmaid's Tale - someone who would refuse to let their circumstances consume them.  
> iii. It has been a real challenge trying to walk the line of not too creepy/eerie and just creepy/eerie enough to keep everyone interested. I hope it hasn't been too overwrought in anyway.  
> iv. I am also on tumblr if anyone's interested! Same username as AO3. :) I would love more followers, especially Jopper/Stranger Things fans!


	7. seven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Over the next two weeks, Joyce keeps to herself and observes the day-to-day activities of the household.

This is the only real hobby she has now — watching the people around her, observing them, taking in as many details as she’s able to.

It’s like a game, almost; a secret game that only she can play, where she files away interesting tidbits, greedily hoards morsels of information.

It helps keep her mind occupied, her sanity firmly in orbit around her.

 _Watching people is the first step to understanding them_ , Jonathan had said to her once. _Keep an eye on them and they can’t surprise you._ He’d been thirteen at the time, but already so world-weary.

The first thing she notices is that the Commander has several men at his disposal, which means he is indeed very important.

He has two Angels on personal security detail at all times — Powell and Callahan — the same two Angels that brought her to this place.

There’s a third Angel that she sometimes catches a glimpse of — a thin man apparently named Jones. Joyce has never seen his face.

Unlike Powell or Callahan, Jones seems to prefer wearing the standard-issue dark goggles and balaclava around the property. He spends most of his time outside at the barracks or accompanying the Commander, which leads her to believe that he is of high rank as well; perhaps some kind of drill sergeant, preparing for the new recruits that are due in any week now.

The Commander also has a driver, a short, balding, pasty man named Bauman. He’s often nervous, with dark, beady eyes that follow her a bit more closely than she would like — though she suspects that he’s playing his own little observation game, rather than leering at her.

Thankfully, she manages to completely avoid the Commander himself, which isn’t altogether very difficult, to say the least.

There are protocols that are meant to keep them separate — protocols that she’s doubly grateful for, now that she knows his true identity — but she doesn’t really seem to need them.

When the Commander isn’t out on business with the military, he haunts the large house like some kind of strange ghost — drifting from his study to his bedroom and very rarely leaving either of the two.

Florence brings him his meals, attends to any needs he might require.

Powell, Callahan, and occasionally Jones are invited into the study, but other than that, the Commander seems to influence very little of the daily household activity — curious, but probably not unusual for a powerful man.

It’s easy enough to ignore his presence during the day, but he plagues her dreams at night, his face appearing behind her closed eyes more often than she’d care to admit.

Joyce finds herself running transparent fingers over years-old memories, memories on the cusp of being forgotten altogether.

She plucks them from the edge of oblivion, re-examines them in her mind’s eye, tries to recall everything she can about this strange yet familiar man.

She remembers his favorite color — slate blue, like his eyes and the deep stillness of a river at dawn.

She remembers the echo of his laugh, deep and booming.

She remembers the brand of cigarettes that he smoked — Camel Straights, filterless. They’d sneak smokes together under the stairs at Hawkins High School. She’d always wheeze, and he’d always tease her about it. 

She remembers the feel of him, the press of his body against hers, the way he breathed her name with sweat cooling on her skin. Those memories fill her with shame and sadness simultaneously — they’re carefree and tinged with youthfulness, incredible naivety.

They’d been so stupid then, unable to turn toward the future and see what was coming.

She’s bound here, in the present, viewing the playback of another lifetime, another existence; a life where she was a whole person, where she interacted with men as she pleased and felt no special way about it.

A life where she’d been able to pry herself free of Lonnie; a life where she had two sons who loved her, whom she loved with her entire being.

A life where her name was Joyce and his name was Jimmy, and they danced around each other like leaves high on the wind, falling in love and not caring where they landed.

None of it could happen now.

Not in this place.

 

* * *

 

Joyce helps Florence bake one morning.

Together they assemble dozens of pastries — some filled with chocolate, some with custard, some with fresh fruits and sugary glaze (“Commander Owens and his Wife are very fond of these,” Florence says).

They bake loaves of bread, croissants, and flaky biscuits that Joyce doesn’t know the name of.

They’re chatting amiably about the weather and the approaching summer when the older woman nonchalantly drops an atom bomb.

“Your first Ceremony is in two days,” Florence informs her. She conspicuously avoids eye contact as she layers pastry dough with shaved chunks of dark chocolate. “You know what you’re supposed to do, right?”

There’s a pause; the air in the kitchen suddenly seems hazy, and Joyce can’t seem to take a breath.

“No, I’m not sure,” she murmurs faintly, her stomach twisted around itself.

_Breathe. In and out. C’mon, breathe._

For some reason, she hears Terry’s voice in her head instead of her own.

Florence meets her gaze. There’s a flash of something — indignation? anger, maybe? — and then it’s gone.

_Breathe, Joyce._

“At the school, where I was before this—” Her voice catches, and she draws in a huge gulp of air just as her lungs begin to burn. “They told us there would always be a Wife present. But the Commander…”

Florence watches her carefully. “You’ll be alone with him.”

Joyce nods, her head still swimming. “I— I’m worried.”

“You shouldn’t be afraid,” Florence says. “He’s a good man.”

 _How can he be a good man if he’s in a position like this?_ The words materialize in her mind, but she bites them back, wincing — questioning the authority of a Commander, even behind his back, is a tantamount to treason.

She wants to believe that the Commander is still good; that he’s still Jimmy Hopper, the little boy she grew up with all those years ago.

The raw truth of it is that he is an important man in a government that has stripped her of everything.

Florence reaches across the worktable, as if sensing her inner turmoil, and covers Joyce’s hand with her own.

“He’s a good man,” she repeats, fiercely, her eyes bright behind her glasses.

As quickly as Florence establishes physical contact, she withdraws, but Joyce’s skin tingles for several minutes afterward.

She puzzles over it until the realization dawns on her—

She’d forgotten how it felt to be touched, even casually.

They continue to work in silence, but Joyce’s mind launches into overdrive, anxiety tearing a wide swath through orderliness and turning everything into chaos.

Amongst the chaos, there are several scattered thoughts about the Commander.

Thoughts about having to lie back and let him fuck her, but it won’t actually be fucking because it’s supposed to be detached and cold and impersonal — nothing more than a routine procedure for the good of the Republic.

Thoughts about the last time they were together, the night before he shipped off to boot camp — their foreheads touching afterward in the darkness, his hands tracing circles down her back, the two of them barely fitting in a rickety twin bed at his parents’ house.

He’d told her then that he loved her, that he would always love her, and now even that will be stripped away; replaced with memories of some ritual make-believe bullshit that doesn’t actually mean anything, and never will.

It makes her insides burn with shame and humiliation and anger; anger hotter than she’s ever felt.

Joyce wants to weep and scream and rage against the injustice and unfairness of it all, but she does none of that; instead, everything is pushed down, down, and she says nothing.

  

* * *

 

“Have you had your first Ceremony yet?”

Joyce and Ofsam are walking home from town the next day, laden down with bags of fresh produce and meat.

“Yeah.” Ofsam’s voice is suspiciously clipped.

“What was it like?”

Ofsam doesn’t answer for a few moments.

They amble along a concrete and exposed brick sidewalk. Joyce counts the lines, tries not to step on them.

 _Step on a crack, break your mother’s back!_ Will is in her head today. All she can hear is his singsong tones, his bright laughter.

God, she misses her boys.

“Commander Owens is a good man,” Ofsam says, finally. She pronounces _good man_ very carefully, as though trying to indicate something with her intonation. “I’m not afraid of him.”

“Florence tells me that Commander Hopper is a… good man,” Joyce replies, trying to imitate Ofsam.

Ofsam peers at her from under her winged bonnet. “He is.”

For a moment, Joyce is flustered. “Have you met him?”

“No.”

“Then how do you know?”

They’re at the back gate of the house now; Ofsam stops and faces Joyce, her expression uncharacteristically amused.

She resembles Terry so strongly in this moment that Joyce can’t look away.

“Look… you don’t need to worry.”

 _I think you should listen to her, Mom,_ Will says, as though he’s merely hiding somewhere amongst her worried thoughts, instead of wherever he might be right now.

Ofsam turns to leave.

“Wait,” Joyce says. _Now or never_. “Do you have a sister?”

“A sister?”

“Yeah… you know. From before all this.”

Ofsam studies her. “Yeah. I have a sister.” She looks down for a second, then back up, blinking hard. “Had, maybe. I don’t know anymore.”

“Was her name Terry?”

Ofsam flinches slightly, and Joyce feels as though she’s uttered a curse.

This time she only gets a small nod for an answer.

“I was with her, at a school,” Joyce says. “She was alive and she was— she was okay.”

There’s a beat of measured silence, then a small sniffle.

“Thank you,” Ofsam replies quietly, her eyes shiny with tears. “I mean it. Thanks.”

She lays a hand on Joyce’s forearm with a sad smile, then departs, heading down the path toward another section of town on the outer edge.

Joyce watches her walk away, turns the words _good man_ over and over in her mind.

There’s something there; a message maybe, a code or a secret that she isn’t privy to.

For some reason, it lifts the anxiety a fraction, lets her move just a tiny bit more freely under the weight of her dress and the looming nearness of the Ceremony.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I'm sorry this is such a slow burn type of fic... maybe I should fix my tags. :3 Lol.  
> ii. I promise that more rapid development is coming within the next few chapters... I'm one of those annoying writers that is like "EXPOSITION!" and "Setting the scene is so important!" because I'm an asshole.


	8. eight.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself. 
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Joyce helps Florence make dinner late that afternoon. They murmur quietly to each other, discussing the condition of the vegetables (merely fair, they’ve had better), the bruising and rot of the fruit (what a shame, there hasn’t been a good shipment recently) and the cuts of meat (they’re actually pretty good today, isn’t that wonderful?).

They talk secretly, their words twisting around the actual subject at hand — the food shortages that have sprung up in pockets, due to the sudden collapse of one country and haphazard rise of another.

“So many people to feed,” Florence sighs. “I hope they get a grip, and soon. We’re lucky, here. Others aren’t.”

Joyce finds herself nodding as a bolt of disgust shoots through her from head to toe.

 _Lucky, so lucky,_ she thinks. _We’re not even considered human, but we’re lucky because we can at least afford to eat._

The hall door swings open suddenly, and when she turns, the Commander is standing in the kitchen. He’s tall, much taller than she remembers; in fact, he seems to fill the room.

His expression is curiously neutral, his blue eyes watching her with a guarded coolness.

Joyce feels the air go out of her lungs.

This is the first time she’s actually come face to face with him on equal footing, and she’s reminded of just how unequal they actually are.

“Commander,” she says, dropping her eyes to the floor, giving him an quirky little bow that feels stiff and unnatural. The Aunts had made them practice and practice, but here she is, woefully unprepared.

“I’d like you to join me in the study,” he says curtly, after she straightens.

God, he even sounds the same, though maybe a bit huskier than years ago.

She shakes off the sudden haze of memory, realizes that he’s asked her to do something forbidden.

Verboten.

Against the rules.

Joyce looks to Florence, who simply nods, her lips pressed together in a thin line.

“I— of course. Yes, sir.”

He leaves without another word.

She meets Florence’s gaze, her eyes wide.

“Go. I can finish up here,” the older woman says, and she smiles as she turns away.

 

* * *

 

Joyce stands outside the double doors of the study, wringing her hands, twisting her fingers against one another.

She’s never seen the inside of this room; in fact, she’s never been near it, if she’s honest with herself. Even the woodwork around the doors looks menacing, imposing, the filigree jutting out at sharp, severe angles.

What does he want with her?

This type of interaction is explicitly prohibited. Joyce only serves one purpose in his household, after all, and nothing more than that.

She takes several deep breaths, trying to soothe her nerves.

Maybe it’s nothing.

Maybe Florence has complained about her ability to cook (she isn’t a chef, for Christ’s sake).

Maybe he’s going to tell her that she’s being reassigned, moved to another household.

Finally she reaches forward and knocks, three short raps on the dark wood.

“Come in.” His voice is muffled.

 _Breathe_ , Terry says. _Just b_ _reathe._

Joyce enters the study.

It’s a rather nice room — large, masculine, and utterly benign — like something out of _Lifestyles of the Rich and Famous._

The Commander sits behind a large desk, scratching at some papers with a very expensive-looking pen.

Callahan and Powell are nowhere to be found — he must have sent them away. Strange.

“Sit,” he says, without looking up from the task at hand.

She moves to one of the chairs in front of the desk, awkwardly takes a seat, her sweaty palms pressed flat against the pleats of her red dress. Her breathing is shallow, and she has to remind herself to inhale evenly, steadily.

The Commander continues writing, not even glancing at her.

She takes a few moments to peer at him as inconspicuously as she can, unable to resist playing her little observation game.

He looks good, she realizes. Older, sure, but still as handsome as she remembers. He’s neatly clean-shaven, the hint of a five o’clock shadow just beginning to show on his cheeks and chin. There are definite lines etched into his forehead, between his eyebrows, and around his mouth, yet it’s as though he’s barely aged in the eighteen years since she last saw him.

She can see the younger Hopper in the man before her so clearly, and she’s surprised at how acutely her chest aches.

His eyes meet hers as he sets the pen down suddenly, the weight of it clacking against the wooden desk.

Joyce looks away guiltily.

“Sorry,” he says, his voice gruff. “Paperwork isn’t my favorite, but it’s gotta be done.” He speaks more loosely here, like he’s from Indiana and not from… well, wherever they are. His expression is neutral, no flicker of recognition betraying him this time.

She nods wordlessly, training her eyes somewhere around where the hard line of his jaw meets his collar.

There’s a scuffling sound as he reaches into a drawer for something, and then she hears the very familiar scrape and flare of a lighter. The Commander leans back in his chair and cups his hand around the end of a cigarette, the flame lighting his face and giving him a brief, slightly demonic appearance.

She wonders if he still smokes Camels; wonders if he can even buy them any more.

“You got a name?” he asks, blowing a stream of smoke out of the corner of his mouth.

Surprise, and then indignation burn in her cheeks.

_Of course I have a goddamn name, you’ve only known it for your whole life!_

“Ofjames, sir,” she says, using every ounce of control to keep her voice even.

Two can play at this game.

She hears him snort derisively, and mutter something under his breath.

“D’you know why you’ve been sent here?”

The question startles her a bit, but she manages to maintain her composure, and nods again.

_To get knocked up for God and country._

“To serve the New Republic, sir.” She folds her hands in her lap primly, stares at them with memories of Aunt Connie and Aunt Lydia and Aunt Gemma fresh in her mind.

“Do you know who I am?” He sounds softer now, warmer; exactly how he used to sound back when he was _Hopper_ and he was touching her face, the bare skin of her back—

Joyce chances a look at him.

He’s watching her very carefully, the cigarette tucked between two fingers.

_Of course I know you, you’re the boy that I loved, the one that got away, and the very last person I ever expected to see in a position like this._

She wishes she could take the cigarette from him, just like she used to; take a great big drag and blow the smoke back in his face—

“You’re Commander Hopper, sir.”

His eyes narrow slightly, and he runs a hand through his hair, sitting back in his chair and sighing.

When he speaks again, his tone is formal, terse, colder than it was. “Are you aware of what I do here?”

“No, sir, I’m not.”

The Commander trains his icy gaze on her. “I’m setting up an academy for recruits to the Angels of the New Republic. There’re plenty of kids out there with promising talents, abilities.” He gestures to the buildings behind him, along the edge of the property. “We’re going to educate them here. Train them here.”

He tilts his head slightly, as if waiting for her to comment.

Her throat is tight and her pulse races. Blood rushes in her ears.

This man may wear Hopper’s face, but she’s sure — deadly sure — that he’s someone else now, someone who has the ability to make her disappear for good.

“That sounds wonderful, sir,” she replies, her voice faint.

Outside, the sky is pink and blue and the sun is low, a hot ember burning in the encroaching evening.

The Commander scrutinizes her for what seems like an eternity, like he’s searching her expression for something specific.

“It will be,” he says finally, stubbing the cigarette out in an empty ashtray. He immediately fishes another cigarette from the breast pocket of his uniform jacket, lights it and and takes a long drag, regarding her with a look she can’t quite read. “You’re dismissed.”

“Thank you, sir.” Joyce stands and practically runs to the double doors, desperate to get away from him. She tries to force herself to slow down, but her body has other ideas, because every one of her senses is flashing red.

Right before she can let herself out, she hears him speak.

“You’re safe here,” he says. “I hope you know that.”

She pauses and turns to look at him.

 _You arrogant son-of-a_ —

Something ugly and angry and hot rears itself up inside her chest, but she grasps it tightly, wrestles it down below the surface and keeps it there.

“I haven’t been safe in a long time,” she replies, her voice oddly calm, “and I’m certainly not safe now.”

Joyce slips through the doors before he can respond, her heart pounding in her chest so loudly that she fears he might hear it.

 

* * *

 

She dreams about Hopper that night — relives several memories from when they were young together, from when she loved him.

She dreams that he kisses her, touches her, but his lips and hands are like ice on her skin.

Coldness spreads from his fingertips, crawling across her body until it envelops her completely.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. At last, Joyce and Hopper speak to each other... :) Updating my tags now, lmao. #slowburn4lyfe #jopper5evah  
> ii. I've made a couple of moodboards to go along with this fic, because that's how I get my inspiration sometimes. They can be seen here: https://luminaryestuary.tumblr.com/post/175313490435/some-moodboards-for-the-tide-of-breathing  
> iii. I've literally been writing this fic while listening to all the Ghost (band) albums... that should say something about my mindset maybe? D: #sorryfortheangst  
> iv. I love sassy Joyce - you tell 'im, girl!  
> v. Lastly, I just wanna thank all of you for the feedback and comments... it really keeps me going when I've gotten stuck on small plot things etc. I really love the Stranger Things fandom, and the Jopper corner of it specifically. Some days I feel like there isn't nearly enough content, compared to some other fandoms at least, but y'all are the coolest people around. It's been a long time since I felt so accepted in a fandom community. Thanks for having me. <3


	9. nine.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

The bath water is warm, the surface white and opaque with rose scented soap bubbles.

Joyce examines her pruney fingers with her head tilted back toward the ceiling, purposely avoids looking at her body.

Her body is no longer her own, and today — the day of the Ceremony — is the first day that that concept has really sunken in, taken hold somewhere deep in her mind.

One hand slips below the water. Her palm is smooth against the soft skin of her stomach. She remembers being pregnant with Jonathan and Will; remembers the large swell of her belly, the heaviness of it, the promise of a child soon, so soon.

Her mind wanders and she imagines Hopper — no, the Commander — between her legs, his fingertips angrily digging into her thighs, bruising and sharp.

Imagines herself pregnant again for a fleeting moment, but the baby feels all wrong inside of her, because it’s not a baby but a black hole, sucking away all emotion and love and life with it.

She lurches forward in the bath, her body wrenching with dry heaves.

The sudden motion splashes puddles of soapy water onto the black and white tiles.

Somewhere in between heaves there’s a flash of something, of some _one_ — a little girl with dark blonde hair and gray-blue eyes — and then nothing.

Joyce rests her forehead against the side of the tub; wishes for blissful numbness to overtake her, but it remains far away, high and out of reach.

 

* * *

 

The grandfather clock strikes eight o’clock in the hallway, deep chimes that reverberate through the wood floors.

Joyce sits on the edge of her white bed, contemplating bare toes that peek out from beneath the hem of her red dress.

She’s supposed to get up, walk down the hallway, and go to the Commander’s bedroom — another room with intimidating double doors, and the one room in the house that she has yet to see.

If this were a normal situation, a normal household (ha, normal! — as if any of this is _normal_ ), she would lay back on the lap of a Wife, their hands joined to symbolize the union of their shared purpose, her skirt hitched up around her waist while the Commander went about his business and hopefully knocked her up.

But this isn’t a normal situation; Joyce can’t remember any protocols for a Wifeless Commander.

There’s a soft knock at the door, and then it opens.

Florence stands in the dark hallway, the reflection in her glasses hiding her eyes.

“C’mon hon,” she says. “It’s time.”

“I can’t,” Joyce says helplessly. “I can’t do this.”

“Yes, you can,” Florence says. She comes into the room, touches Joyce’s cheek lovingly. It’s a mother-like gesture, so familiar that Joyce wonders if the older woman has children, grandchildren out there somewhere.

She decides that she’ll ask, once the first Ceremony is all over and behind her.

They walk together down the hallway, stopping just before the Commander’s bedroom.

“He’s a good man,” Florence says quietly, nearly under her breath. She reaches over and squeezes Joyce’s hand. “You’ll be fine.”

Joyce nods, her chest and throat tight.

Florence opens the door.

 

* * *

 

The Commander’s bedroom is dark; the only light in the room spills out of the the en-suite bathroom.

The door closes quietly behind her as Joyce’s eyes adjust.

The room is relatively bare, spartan almost. There’s a four poster bed in the center of one wall, made of dark wood. There are two matching bureaus on either side of it, also dark wood. The furniture isn’t modern like hers; in fact, it’s relatively classic, almost antique.

He isn’t here.

For a moment she just stands there, trembling slightly and unsure, her toes digging into the carpet.

The carpet is black, she realizes. So are the linens on the bed; the long curtains that frame the window. The walls match the decor, though in the dim light it’s hard to tell what color they actually are.

The Commander’s bedroom is drenched in darkness, the perfect inverse of her white bedroom.

How bizarre.

Tentatively, she approaches the bed, stares at it for a moment before taking a seat on the edge of it.

The red of her dress seems to be more vibrant here, in the midnight pallor of this room — a glowing spark of life in a dark void.

The scent of the Commander is everywhere around her, something that would be comforting and familiar if this were another time, another place; instead it makes her want to shrink in upon herself, disappear.

 _Never let the bastards grind you down_. Terry’s voice is insistent among the noisy anxieties in her mind.

The door opens, and the Commander steps into the bedroom.

 _Never_.

 

* * *

 

Joyce doesn’t want to acknowledge him, doesn’t even want to look him in the eyes, but something compels her to, so she does.

The Commander closes the door and turns the lock. He stands just inside the room, regarding her with an icy cool gaze that has clearly been perfected over the years.

“Well,” he says, but seems to stop himself from saying much more.

She watches as he takes a few long strides toward the closet, shedding his uniform jacket and hanging it neatly, precisely.

When he faces her again, he’s loosening his tie, and she can barely breathe. Her eyes ache and ache, but no tears come.

She’s as dry as a desert, unable to conjure even the smallest bit of emotion in response to what awaits her.

The Commander takes a few steps toward the bed, toward her, and then—

And then he’s sitting down on the floor, his back against the bureau behind him. He draws his long legs up close to his chest, resting his elbows on his knees.

_What?_

She notices that he has a pack of cigarettes in one hand, and he deftly plucks one out, lighting it and taking a drag before she can even blink twice.

_What the hell is he doing?_

He presses his lips together, smoke streaming out of his nostrils.

There’s a long silence (at least, it feels long), and then his blue gaze meets hers, and the Commander is gone; he’s Hopper now, she can see it in his face and his posture and everything about him has suddenly changed.

“S’been a long time, Joyce.” His voice is quiet and sad.

Cold creeps up the small of her back, tingles across to her arms, goosebumps rising everywhere.

She hasn’t heard her name, her _real_ name, spoken aloud in so many goddamn weeks and months that hearing it feels like a figment of her imagination. She can’t summon words; her throat is too tight and she’s struggling to draw a single breath into her lungs.

The Commander — no, Hopper — sighs.

“I’m sorry.” He shakes his head, then pinches the bridge of his nose, a familiar mannerism from years gone by. “This isn’t easy for me. I can’t imagine what it’s like for you.”  

“I—” she starts, and then she stops. Her voice won’t work.

He’s looking at her again, looking up at her really; she feels dizzy at the elevation difference between them, even though it’s mere inches.

“I don’t understand,” she manages to choke out. “Are you— you’re not going to— what’s going on?”

He contemplates this for a moment.

“Let’s get one thing outta the way,” he says. “I’m not gonna do anything to you.”

This is a revelation she’s still unprepared for; it jolts her straight up and down like an electric shock.

“You're not?”

“No.”

Joyce stares at him. This could be a trick, a lie, something to entrap her with.

Logic tickles at her: why would he do that? It makes no sense.

He has her under his full power and control already; toying with her would just be sadistic, and the Hopper that she knew all those years ago wasn’t a cruel person.

“They didn’t destroy you at that school,” he continues, holding her gaze. “You had me real worried at first. Then you made that comment yesterday, about not being safe here… that’s when I knew you’d made it out in one piece.” He takes another drag, chuckles dryly. “That’s when I knew you were still the same old Joyce.”

Something flickers across his face, a distant memory maybe, then vanishes.

“So— so what you’re saying is…” she begins, haltingly. “You’re saying that you won’t… I’m not… I’ll be safe here?” Her voice is so tiny, almost drowned out by the pounding rush of blood in her ears.

“Yeah.”

Something shakes loose inside her, but she still can’t quite believe it. “How?”

He smiles then, and it’s a small thing, but it’s so beautiful and kind and she realizes that she’s missed him, missed him like hell for all these years.

“I’m with Mayday,” he says.

“Mayday?”

“The resistance,” he replies simply. He stubs out the cigarette on the sole of one very expensive-looking shoe. “The former US government is still active in Alaska, California, and parts of the Northwest. I’ve been installed, undercover, to help take down this bullshit excuse of a country.”

His eyes are so clear, even in the shadows of the room.

”Like a secret agent,” she says.

Hopper shrugs one shoulder. “That’s one way of putting it.” He pulls another cigarette out of the pack, holds it between his lips and lights it. She finds herself desperately wanting one, needing the nicotine rush to help soothe the violent, dizzy spinning of her mind.

There are so many things she wants to ask, but only one question manages to escape her. “Why?”

“Because it’s wrong,” he says sharply, glancing down at the lit cigarette and then back at her, his eyes bright, almost feverish. “All of it’s wrong. Especially this.”

He gestures vaguely at her, and there’s a specific kind of pain behind his expression, something she doesn’t dare stray toward.

“Is Florence— is she undercover too?”

“Yep.”

“What about— what about—”

“Everyone in this house is undercover. Callahan. Powell. Bauman. Even Jones.” He gives her an odd look at mentioning Jones’ name, but that also vanishes faster than she can register. “We’re all in on this together. Which means—”

“That I need to be in on this too,” she finishes.

“Exactly.” Hopper gives her one his charming half-smiles, the ones that used to make her knees weak.

He hasn’t changed as much as she’d thought he would, not even in the midst of everything that’s happened.

Joyce doesn’t say anything for a few moments; she just looks at his face, half-illuminated by the light from the bathroom.

He’s still the boy she knew all those years ago.

He’s still Jimmy Hopper.

She gets up from the bed, turns and slides down to the floor with her back against the bureau, mimicking him. She feels slightly ridiculous in her heavy, shapeless red dress, but that evaporates quickly.

They’re sitting maybe a foot apart, the air between them dense with shared history; it’s been almost two decades since they last spoke, but it doesn’t feel like two decades at all.

It feels like everything only happened yesterday, or maybe the day before.

Joyce breathes out a shaky sigh.

Hopper hands her the cigarette without a word, his fingers lightly brushing hers, whispers from their lives long ago and far away from here.

She takes a drag and immediately starts coughing.

“Some things never change,” she hears him quip, but it’s good-natured, humorous, and simultaneously surreal.

“Shut up,” she says, wheezing. “You could get the filtered kind, you know.”

“Nah. Then you’d take all my smokes.” The words ring in her ears; it’d been his go-to excuse back then, too.

“Some things never change,” she repeats, and without warning, a sudden torrential rush of emotion crashes over her. It overcomes the numbness, overwhelms the walls she’s built to keep everything inside.

There’s so much she hasn’t let herself feel in the past several months, and now she can’t help but feel it all at once.

Hopper says nothing; just sits on the floor with her, lets her cry out every last bit that she can.

When all the tears have finally ceased, she looks at his face and finds her pain momentarily mirrored there; a pain shaped by enormous loss, something that they both have in common at this point.

It slips away, but she knows it’s there.

Maybe he’ll talk about it one day.

Maybe he won’t.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Well... this is a big chapter, and a few of you accurately predicted which way this was heading :) What can I say, I like my dark dystopian stuff, but there needs to be hope!  
> ii. And here is where things really begin, IMO. There is so much coming in the next several chapters, I'm so excited about it!! :)  
> iii. I'm overwhelmed by the love from the Jopper/Stranger Things community. Y'all are amazing and have made my entire week. <3


	10. ten.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

In the quiet moments after the tears stop, they start talking.

He asks her about small things at first; their hometown, her job, her parents.

She returns each question with one of her own, being very careful not to tread anywhere near his deceased wife and daughter.

Their conversation moves forward from there, beginning to feel familiar in a way she can’t describe, almost like deja vu.

He asks about her life right before she was taken; she tells him about her marriage to Lonnie and the inevitable divorce, tells him about Jonathan and Will. There’s a marked shift in his expression, something she can’t quite put a finger on.

Then she yawns.

“You should get some rest,” he says, standing up and offering her his hand, an innocuous gesture that she doesn’t even think to question.

There’s a brief pause between them, one where she looks up into his face and he looks back at her, that guarded coolness nowhere to be found.

“Thank you,” she says, and he looks surprised.

“For what?”

“For… for listening,” Joyce replies. “And you know, for not, um— for not—” She glances at the floor, flustered.

“You’re safe here,” he says gently, settling a large hand on her shoulder.

She doesn’t flinch, because it’s warm and comforting.

Something she knows.

“I know that now.” She gathers her nerves, looks him in the eye. “Good night.”

Joyce leaves Hopper’s bedroom, quietly closing the door behind her. She moves silently down the hallway to her own room, and slips inside without a sound.

She changes into her nightgown — red, silky to the touch, shapeless — and crawls under the covers.

Lies in her bed, staring at the ceiling, turning everything over in her mind.

After so many days and weeks and months of feeling nothing, she feels... something.

There’s a certain abstract quality to it, a lack of definition, but it almost feels like hope.

It flutters in her chest, leaves her nearly breathless in the dark of her room. 

She twists her fingers in the silk fabric of her nightgown, worries her short fingernails against the flat seams; finds a loose thread and pulls, snapping it.

How strange that she should end up here, with one of the few men who won’t use her or hurt her; with a man who knew her before all of this.

How very strange.

Joyce thinks back to all the silent prayers she sent skyward over the last several months.

Maybe someone listened.

 

* * *

 

Joyce opens her eyes at the first light of dawn.

Early morning colors the entire room a pale blue-violet, the shadows a deep indigo.

For once she isn’t blinded by white.

She turns on her side, curls in on herself a bit; thinks about the night before for a long time.

There’s so much that she wants to ask now, so much that she wants to know — she’s been deprived of information for so long, and suddenly she has access to a literal fountain of it.

Mostly, she wants to know if her boys are safe.

Jonathan would be eighteen now — an adult! — and capable of so much more than he ever thought possible.

Jonathan was always the independent one, able to take care of himself (and Will, _and_ her) from an early age. She can’t even remember how many times she’d come home to find dinner on the table, and Will almost done with his homework.

Will would be fourteen, and Joyce worries that this new world is going to crush her sensitive, quiet, artistic child.

The only thing that truly matters, now that she knows she’s safe, is making sure her boys are too.

She resolves to ask Hopper later, and gets out of bed.

There are chores to be done.

 

* * *

 

Joyce ties the white winged bonnet over her hair, which is neatly pulled back in a bun. She slips her red cloak over her shoulders — the weather is cold today, even for early spring.

She’s on the bottom step of the grand staircase when she hears Hopper’s bedroom door open.

She glances behind her, up the stairs.

Hopper is standing at the edge of the landing, adjusting his cufflinks. His navy dress uniform is impeccably pressed and free of creases.

He’s rather striking, actually; a notion Joyce hadn’t let herself entertain until now.

She thinks of him as classically handsome; somewhere along the lines of Clark Gable, especially when he’s wearing that uniform.

No wonder Aunt Lydia had been so excited about her placement in this house.

Hopper looks down at her, his facial expression set in a very particular way; the Commander is firmly back in place, almost like a mask. He even stands differently, his shoulders square and his back ramrod straight.

For a split second, Joyce wonders if last night was a dream, a ruse her imagination conjured up to distract her from what was really going on.

Then his lips quirk into a small smile.

_You’re safe here._

His smile vanishes just as quickly as it appears, but she carries it in her mind’s eye for the rest of the day.

The reassurance of it settles over her — a new layer of armor against this reality. 

A link in her shackles that twists apart under strain.

 

* * *

 

“You were right.”

Joyce keeps her eyes trained on the ground, but she can tell when Ofsam glances over at her.

“About what?”

“About Commander Hopper.”

“Oh,” Ofsam says, and then she huffs a small laugh. “I told you he was a good man.”

“Commander Owens... is he part of, you know—”

“Yeah, he is,” Ofsam replies, cutting her off. “He works with Commander Hopper directly. There’s an entire secret circle of them here."

“We’re safe, then,” Joyce says.

“We are.”

They fall silent again as they walk.

Joyce thinks about all the other women; the women who were at the school with her, in that hellish gymnasium.

She thinks about Terry.

She wonders if any of them are safe — safe like she is, safe like Ofsam is — but she already knows the answer.

It leaves a strong taste of bitterness in her mouth.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. This is (shamelessly) just filler, but necessary filler (if that makes sense).  
> ii. Thank you all so much for your lovely comments on the last chapter, it really made my week and helped enormously in the creative process. Things are going to get interesting from here on out. :)


	11. eleven.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself. 
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

“Hopper wants to see you in the study,” Florence says upon Joyce’s return from town. She doesn’t even look up from slicing green peppers into long slivers, but she has a peculiar, pinched smile on her face.

Hopper must have already filled her in about the night before.

Joyce puts down the two full baskets of produce, fruit, and meat, then reaches up to untie her white bonnet.

She shrugs out of her red cloak, hangs it on the coat rack near the door.

A sunbeam illuminates the thick fabric, casting a red tinge over the nearest wall.

_Everyone in this house is undercover._

“How long have you known the Command— er, Hopper, I mean.”

Florence’s hand stills, the knife coming to rest on the wooden cutting board.

“I’ve worked with him for six years now,” she replies. “Before the fall of the country, before all this.” She holds a hand up and wiggles her fingers vaguely.

“What’d you both do before all of this happened?”

“That’s classified,” Florence says automatically, but then she winks. “You two have known each other for quite some time, hm?”

There are a few seconds of drawn out silence, where Joyce feels nostalgia swirl around her.

“I’ve known him since we were kids,” she replies.

“He did mention that, now that I think about it.”

Joyce contemplates this for a moment. “What else has he told you?”

“Just the basics, hon, and nothing more.” Florence waves her hand in the air again, this time knife and all. “The less I know, the better.”

“Can’t get too familiar, I guess,” Joyce says, a bit of wryness edging her voice.

“You’re already starting to sound like one of us. That’s good.” Florence studies her with that soul-piercing look again. “Your name — your real name — is Joyce, right?”

Joyce nods.

Hearing her name spoken aloud still feels like a punch to the stomach, and momentarily steals her ability to speak.

“Whenever it’s just us, I’ll call you by your real name,” Florence says. Her tone is no-nonsense. “Whenever we have company, or when you’re out, you’ll have to use Ofjames. I know it’s awful, but it helps maintain the status quo.” Their gazes meet briefly, and Florence taps her glasses with one finger. “Keeps the illusion intact.”

“Yes, of course,” Joyce replies. “Shouldn’t be too hard.”

“Good, good. You can call me Flo, by the way. Florence is just too…” the older woman trails off, makes a face. “Too old-fashioned.”

“Flo,” Joyce echoes. “It suits you.”

“So I’m told.” Flo goes back to chopping, but she has a more pleasant demeanor now. “Hopper’s waiting for you.”

Joyce leaves the kitchen, walks toward the study and it’s imposing double doors.

If she listens hard enough, she can still hear the knife against the cutting board — a rhythmic tapping on wood, a pulse point in a household that she’s only just beginning to understand.

 

* * *

 

Hopper answers immediately when she knocks lightly at the door.

“Come in.”

Joyce tugs one door open, slips inside as quickly as she can, taking a seat in the same chair that she had a few days previously.

The study looks slightly different in daytime; the lines and shadows of the room aren’t as sharp, the colors not nearly as dark and imposing.

There’s an air of taboo still surrounding this room, however — one of the few places in the house that’s solely the domain of men.

Even though she knows the truth now, she can’t quite seem to shake the feeling of trespassing.

Hopper is sitting back with his long legs propped up, his heels balanced on the edge of the desk, a somewhat comical image. She finds herself biting back laughter — he’s so different and far away from the intimidating man she’d first seen a few weeks ago.

It’s as though the Commander and Hopper are two different people, swapping themselves in and out whenever deemed necessary.

“Hey,” he greets warmly.

“Hey,” she echoes.

There’s a brief, awkward pause before he clears his throat and removes his feet from the desk, sitting forward.

“I owe you an apology,” he begins, his eyes shifting down to his hands and back up to her. “I wanted to tell you about of all of this sooner. Much sooner. But it was too risky.”

Joyce considers this. “It’s okay. I understand, I really do.”

“I’m still sorry,” he replies. “I spent a lot of time thinking it over. For awhile, I wasn’t even sure if telling you was the best idea, but Flo made a lot of great arguments on your behalf.”

Joyce feels a warm swell of affection for the older woman. “She did?”

“Yeah. She thinks you’re pretty capable.”

“Well, what do you think?” The words come out sounding much more coy that she intends. The question takes him by surprise, hangs there between them for several moments.

“I think it’s a lot to put on your shoulders, and a lot to ask of you,” he says finally, and there’s a rawness in his voice that she hadn’t anticipated. “We’re working directly against a theocratic dictatorship. If anyone finds out that you know _anything_ , you could be put in prison, or worse.”

She’s silent for almost a minute, stares down at her hands in her lap.

“I’ll do whatever you need me to do,” she says.

“Are you sure?”

She looks up, meets his gaze across the desk.

His eyes are bright, the blue almost fiery; they match the anger that blazes deep inside her, the raging fury that she finally gives herself permission to feel. 

“Hopper, they took my boys. They took my rights and my freedom and put this— this— this _thing_ on me. I swear, I will do whatever I can to help fight them. I want to take them down.”

To her surprise, Hopper smiles.

“You haven’t changed at all,” he says.

This time, she actually laughs. It bubbles up from her chest unbidden, bursts past her lips. It feels foreign, alien. “Neither have you.”

“That’s good to know,” he replies, and something flutters through her, almost like a breeze; it’s tenuous and fragile and familiar, prodding at her heart insistently.

Joyce pushes it aside for now. “What do you need me to do?”

Hopper leans forward conspiratorially, his hands folded in front of him. “Bauman tells me that you’re always watching, in one way or another.”

Her cheeks burn a bit. “Oh, I— I wasn’t—”

“Don’t worry. That’s what he does. He used to be a journalist, back before the country fell.” Hopper smirks. “He’s not my favorite person in the world, but he notices a lot of things that most other people don’t. That makes him an invaluable asset. He can't, however, talk to Handmaids, Marthas, or Wives. It’s not exactly discreet.”

She nods. “So you want me to spy for you.”

“Something like that.” He chuckles a bit. “For now, just listen and observe. Talk to the other Handmaids you see when you’re out and about. There’s a lot of information that we’ve been missing out on.”

“Easy enough.”

Hopper sits back in his chair, his posture relaxed. “You can go anywhere you like in the house and on the grounds, with the exception of the barracks,” he continues. “You’re welcome in the study whenever you want, for the most part. It’s rare that we get important people from the New Republic here — they usually prefer that I go to them. I get a lot of warning prior to anyone arriving, so on those days, I’ll need you to play your usual role.”

“That’s fair,” she replies, “but what’s going on in the barracks?”

Hopper drums his fingertips on the desk, gives her a sidelong glance. “There’s no real easy way to say this — the barracks are for getting kids out of the country.”

“Wait a minute, what? Do you mean you’re going to— to smuggle them out or something?”

“Yeah. We’re going to bring them here, under the guise of training them as Angels and Eyes of God.”

“Eyes of God?”

“Secret police, spies,” he explains. “A new initiative started by Commander Brenner. The idea is to use certain people, including kids and teenagers, against enemies of the state. He’s put me in charge of the program, but I’m going to use it to get these kids to the remaining US Territories in California.”

Joyce attempts to process this, her mind reeling from the overload of information. “Who’s Commander Brenner?”

Hopper presses his lips together into a line, exhales a deep breath through his nose. “He’s the guy in charge, the big bad architect of the New Republic, and the reason you’re wearing that dress.” He closes his eyes and sighs before continuing. “That man is a force to be reckoned with, which is why it’s so important that we strictly keep to assigned roles as much as we can. He can sniff out traitors better than most. It’s almost like he’s got a _talent_ for it.”

“And you work so closely with him…”

“He seems to like me, for some strange reason,” Hopper says. “But he’s also notorious for testing the people beneath him, making sure they fall in line. That’s part of why you were sent here, I’m sure.”

Joyce’s heart nearly stops. “What?”

“Yeah, it’s what he does. I’m a Commander without a family, so I have to do a little extra work to demonstrate my devotion to this great experiment.” Hopper scoffs, reaching into the drawer next to him and pulling out his pack of smokes and lighter. “I have to do my duty for the New Republic — rape unwilling women to create children for the country. It’s a show of loyalty I’m expected to provide, and nothing more.”

He puts a cigarette between his lips and lights it, frowning, his expression turning dark.

“It's about control,” Joyce says quietly. She remembers the man from the school, the one with white hair and the chilling smile.  “When they first brought me to the school, that’s what they said. ‘This country is long overdue for some strict order. No more chaos.’ I didn’t know what it meant at the time.”

“That definitely sounds like something he’d say,” Hopper sighs, blowing a stream of smoke toward the ceiling. “He has this… this way with words that convinces people to work against their own best interests. It’s bizarre.”

He falls silent for a few moments, clearly lost in thought. Joyce watches the smoke swirl from the tip of the cigarette, her mind turning to Jonathan and Will.

“Is there any way for me to find out what happened to my boys?”

Hopper looks at her quickly, sharply, but then relaxes. “I might be able to reach out to a source in Indiana,” he says. “Might be tough to get through to Hawkins. The infrastructure in that part of the country is spotty right now. It could take a few weeks.”

There’s a certain evasiveness in his tone, one that she begins to ponder when an awful realization suddenly pushes its way to the forefront of her mind.

“Hopper, I— I can only stay here for six months. If I don’t get pregnant by then…” she trails off, and they stare at each other.

“You’ll be reassigned,” he finishes, his eyebrows drawing tightly together.

She doesn’t even want to think about being sent away; sent to someone who’ll have no qualms about forcing her participation in the Ceremony.

“I’ll talk to Owens,” he says, his tone grim. “He’ll come up with something.”

Joyce can only nod, her voice suddenly failing her.

Hopper stands up from behind the desk, rounding it and perching himself on the edge just in front of her.

“Here,” he says, handing her his pack of cigarettes. She takes one out automatically, holds it to her lips, her hands trembling.

He lights it for her.

Memories flare to life along with the flame of the lighter.

She coughs only slightly on the first inhale, the heat in her lungs dry but comforting. When she looks at him again, she expects to see his teasing half-grin; instead his expression is very solemn, without a trace of humor.

“I won’t let anything happen to you,” he says.

It sounds like a promise.

Joyce wonders if he’ll be able to keep it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I feel like Flo is one of the most underrated characters on Stranger Things, I love her to death and want her to be in more episodes.  
> ii. This is an abnormally long chapter. Most of them won't be this long, but I hope you all like it!


	12. twelve.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Violence Warning: This chapter is a bit more violent than the rest of the story. Just a heads-up.

 

 

A week passes, and then another.

The atmosphere of the large house seems to change, soften, gradually evolving from foreign and tense to relaxed and welcoming.

Joyce begins to look at everything differently; the color of the walls, the crown molding on the ceiling, even the draping of the curtains around the windows.

It somehow feels less like a prison, and more like a home.

It’s a very strange feeling, and she’s somewhat reluctant to let herself settle in completely.

Despite this, she finds herself in the doorway of the study each evening, always pausing just over the threshold.

Despite this, Hopper always invites her in, and she always accepts.

Joyce usually sits with a book on her lap, her ankles crossed beneath her skirt. She never really read much before the fall of the country, but there’s a sizeable collection of books in the study, leftover from the previous occupants of the house.

Now that it’s illegal, she devours novels that she’d never bothered to look twice at.

Austen, Hemingway, Woolf. Names that used to intimidate her.

First editions, second editions; books long out of print, their pages yellowed and musty and brittle.

The lack of accessible information has created a certain hunger inside her, a desire to know more.

Hopper spends his time poring over government-related paperwork, usually frowning and smoking and shaking his head.

He shows her plans and diagrams, official documents with seals and great, looping signatures.

He asks her what she thinks.

Asks about what she’s seen and heard.

It’s so incredibly surreal, like she’s stuck in an episode of _The Twilight Zone_.

Outside of this house, no one really _looks_ at her anymore.

No one can see a whole human, a person with thoughts and feelings.

All they see is the color of her dress, the reflection of her assigned, specific purpose.

Inside this house, it’s like everything outside is suspended, the many pieces of her humanity freely returned to her, to use as she likes. 

She tells him what she’s seen and heard.

She tells him what she thinks.

He listens.

 

* * *

 

During the second month of her assignment to the household, Hopper leaves on military business for two weeks. Callahan and Powell accompany him. They’re headed for the central government district of the New Republic, which is about half a day’s distance worth of travel from the estate.

Joyce stands in the shadows of the balcony, watches as he gives Flo a few last minute instructions.

He glances up before he leaves, and smiles at her.

She lifts her hand in silent farewell, swallowing against the curiously rapid beating of her heart.

 

* * *

 

A week into Hopper’s absence, Joyce and Ofsam journey into town on their usual errand run to the market stalls and shops.

It’s a bright spring morning, and something is happening.

A rather large crowd is gathered in the market square, near a white, weathered gazebo. There’s shouting, yelling, a chorus of hoarse and angry voices.

Joyce and Ofsam glance at each other from beneath their bonnets, then venture a little bit closer, in order to see what’s going on.

There’s a young man and a young woman on their knees, surrounded by Angels with their guns drawn.

Clad in their black armor and masks, the Angels look like ghoulish wraiths.

The man is bloodied and confused. There's a large gash in his forehead, steadily dripping blood.

The woman stares straight ahead into space, her chin lifted defiantly.

She wears a red dress; it’s torn and dirty, the bottom hemline coated in mud. Her long, silver-blonde hair spills past her shoulders, free from the confines of modesty.

Joyce thinks that the woman looks familiar, so familiar — from the school maybe?

Two Angels step up, one behind the man and one behind the woman.

The crowd grows louder, shrieks and shouts for justice, their cries echoing off the buildings nearby.

One voice calls out above the rest, lectures them about the foundations of the New Republic; talks of dissent and defection and the penalty for abandoning the country at such a bright and prosperous time.

Cold understanding washes over Joyce, creating a vacuum in its wake, a ringing in her ears.

The muzzles of two guns are carefully aimed, aimed at the backs of heads.

There suddenly isn’t enough oxygen to breathe.

Before Joyce can turn away, twin gunshots shatter the air.

Ofsam screams.

The man and woman slump to the ground, bodies twitching and convulsing in the throes of death.

The crowd cheers.

Joyce grabs Ofsam’s arm, draws the other woman away from the grisly scene. Together, they hurry down the paths toward the outskirts of town, neither of them daring to speak a word.

 

* * *

 

The next day, the bodies appear on a wall near the center of town.

Not just _any_ wall, however.

Whispers travel fast, like lightning.

Joyce listens to them intently.

Her head might be bowed low, her eyes might be trained on the ground, but she hears so many things.

It's now the _Wall_ , a place that invokes hushed voices and nervous glances.

The Wall is the broad, brick side of a large, crumbling building. It once been a part of a factory, shuttered and abandoned some time before the rise of the New Republic.

It overlooks the market square almost perfectly.

The two bodies hang from hooks, limp and pale and purple-tinged. There are white bags over their faces.

Joyce stares at the woman’s body.

The red dress is in tatters. A few wisps of silver-blonde hair have escaped from confines of the bag; they flutter in the breeze, glint in the sunlight.

Joyce turns away.

There’s a hardening in her chest, molten fury coalescing into something she’s never felt before.

It sits between her heart and her lungs, heavy and distinct.

Joyce carries it with her, lets it power each step forward away from the Wall, toward the market, where Ofsam is waiting.

She’d been afraid, once.

No more.

_Never let the bastards grind you down_. Terry’s voice echoes in her mind.

_Never_ , she thinks.

It becomes a silent chant, the words repeating themselves over and over with every footstep.

_Never._

_Never._

_Never._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Alright, I'm going on vacation starting tonight (yay!) and I will have so much time to write. I'm so excited. I can't wait!  
> ii. Despite being a short chapter, I think this might be one of my favorite chapters in the story so far. I genuinely love writing Joyce's character, she is one of my favorite characters in any show ever.  
> iii. I promise that more ST characters are coming. :) Very very soon.  
> iv. I hope you guys are enjoying reading this as much as I enjoy writing it! The ST fandom has been so awesome to me, I just really adore all of you. Thank you so much for all your comments and kudos, they mean everything to me!


	13. thirteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Two days after the bodies appear on the Wall, Flo comes to Joyce’s room early in the morning.

“You have your first appointment this afternoon,” she says gently, lingering in the doorway.

Joyce doesn’t look at her, but murmurs in agreement while stepping into her flat, red shoes.

Handmaids are required by law to undergo a monthly physical examination, typically two weeks after a Ceremony.

It’s yet another violation, balanced carefully on top of the precarious, wobbling tower of violations before it.

She already knows they won’t find what they’re looking for.

There was no Ceremony; there is no pregnancy.

A strike against her — no, a strike against her body.

Her body’s ability to reproduce is the only thing that matters anymore, something that she’s managed to put at the back of her mind for the last several days.

“You’ll be in good hands,” Flo continues, cutting through Joyce’s thoughts like a knife. “Commander Owens runs the facility here. He was a military physician for over thirty years before this, and he’s one of ours. He won’t let anything… untoward happen while you’re there.”

Joyce finally meets Flo’s gaze.

“I’m really worried,” she says, her voice wavering slightly.

“What are you worried about, hon?”

“I don’t have long. Six months. If I don’t get pregnant after six months, I’ll be reassigned...” she trails off, finds that her cheeks and eyes burn hot, but not with tears.

There are a few moments of silence.

“There’s always a solution.” Flo’s tone is even, but her expression looks somewhat pained. “Whatever it is, we’ll figure it out. Don’t worry.”

She leaves without another word, but Joyce can hear the older woman sigh as she walks down the hallway and descends the grand staircase.

For once, Joyce doesn’t have to guess what Flo is thinking, because she’s completely certain that their thought processes are identical, aligned.

The sunlight streams in through the window with no curtains.

Joyce presses a flat palm to her abdomen, chews on her lower lip.

Maybe there’s no other way.

 

* * *

 

“Rebecca.”

Joyce looks at Ofsam sharply.

They’re almost to the outskirts of town, carrying baskets of produce from the market stalls.

“What?”

“Rebecca. That’s my name.” Ofsam glances at her surreptitiously, her voice low. “I used to go by Becky, too, but it doesn’t sound the same anymore.”

“Oh.” Joyce takes another few steps. “I’m Joyce.”

“That’s a pretty name,” Ofsam— no, Rebecca says.

“I hated it for a long time,” Joyce admits, smiling and wrinkling her nose. “My mom always called me ‘Joy’, for short. I thought it was the most obnoxious thing in the world.”

Rebecca laughs quietly beside her; echoes of Terry flow through the air.

“My name is the last thing I have left from before,” Joyce continues. “It’s the last thing I have left of my mom. I’m thankful she isn’t here to see what’s happened to this country.”

Rebecca reaches over, squeezes Joyce’s hand with her own. “Never let the bastards grind you down.”

Joyce doesn’t say anything for the rest of their walk back to the estate, but inside she’s reeling.

The familiar words twist through her mind.

First in Terry’s voice, then in Rebecca’s.

 

* * *

 

At precisely three o’clock, Joyce opens the front door of the house, her winged bonnet tied in place and her red cloak draped just so over her shoulders.

Jones is waiting outside, silently standing near the back door of a sleek, black town car.

He opens the door as she approaches, closes it behind her after she gets in.

The ride to the health facility is uneventful, but Joyce feels slightly prickly the whole time, as if someone is watching her.

On one or two occasions, she notices that Jones appears to be stealing glances at her in the rearview mirror, but with the tinted partition and his dark goggles and face mask, it’s impossible to tell for sure.

_How strange_ , she thinks. _How very strange._

 

* * *

 

The inside of the facility is white, sterile and cold.

The hallways are bare, the wallpaper faded and peeling in places.

The white, gray-flecked linoleum is cracked here and there.

Joyce waits in a small room.

At the center of the room is an examination table, with a set of metal stirrups on one end. Next to the table is a tray with several instruments; a speculum, an assortment of forceps, and many other tools that she doesn’t know the names of.

She sits in a chair against one wall, her hands folded in her lap.

There’s a security camera in the corner of the room, near the ceiling. The red light on it glows steadily.

A rolling stool is against the wall opposite of her.

The halogen bulbs hum softly overhead.

The door opens suddenly without warning, revealing a short man in a long white lab coat. His short, curly hair is greying, white at the temples. He bustles inside and shuts the door behind him, ensures that it’s closed tightly.

He dips his hand into his pocket, extracts a small, flat device that he sets up on the examination table. A red light on the device begins to steadily pulsate, blinking on and off.

The red light on the security camera blinks in unison.

Satisfied with this, the man finally turns to her.

“Ofjames,” he greets jovially, his smile broad and eyes full of kindness. “Or should I call you Joyce?”

Joyce stares at him wordlessly.

“I’ll go with Joyce,” he says, without missing a beat. “I prefer that anyway. Much more melodic.”

He brings the rolling stool over in front of her and takes a seat, tilting his head.

The smile is still on his face.

“I’m Dr. Owens,” he says, his right hand moving in the air with a flourish. “Everyone here calls me Commander Owens, but I’ve never been one for pomp and circumstance.”

“C-Commander Owens?” Joyce manages to stutter out. “So you’re… you’re part of—”

“Yes,” he says. “I’m part of Mayday, long may we reign. Joking, of course.” His delivery is deadpan, purely sarcasm — something she hasn’t heard in a very long time.

Joyce appraises him for a long moment before continuing. “Are you going to examine me?”

Owens gives her a similarly appraising look. “No, I’m not; but only because Hopper already told me there was nothing to examine.” He squints his eyes a bit at this, as if laughing internally at his own cleverness.

“He’s right,” she affirms. “There was no Ceremony.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” Owens says, fiddling a bit with the edge of his lab coat. “You know, I always got the impression that he was a bit more... freewheeling in his younger days, but I didn’t know him until after he met Diane. I can’t speak for him before that.”

“I can,” Joyce replies, her tone light, almost airy. It sounds innocent, edged with something else entirely.

Owens raises both eyebrows, as if to say, _Oh?_

She stares back at him, unwavering, a small smile on her lips.

“Flo did mention that the two of you go back a long way,” Owens says vaguely, an implication hanging there between them.

“We do, actually.” Joyce adopts Flo’s typical affectation, attempting to emulate the older woman’s no-nonsense approach. “A very long way.”

“That’s good,” he replies after a beat. “Very good, actually. I can see there’s a semblance of trust that’s been established.” He chuckles dryly. “The rest of us had to go in blind. I’m sure you can understand how trying that might be.”

Joyce nods. “Well, trust or not, we’re all in this now.”

“That we are.” Owens smiles at her. “So here’s the deal. We’re working on a way to keep you and Rebecca in your current assignments. It may take another few weeks to finalize, but rest assured, we’re spending every waking moment on it. Any other Handmaids that fall into Mayday households will have the same protections.”

“How many of you are there, exactly?”

“Well, that’s classified,” he says, and then he barks a short laugh at her wide-eyed reaction. “Mayday has dozens of operatives installed throughout the New Republic. More in the capital city than out here in the boondocks, but yes. There are many of us working to take this country down.”

The tiny, flickering flame of hope that she carries in her chest grows warm. 

“I had no idea,” she says, her voice unexpectedly thick with emotion. “Thank you.”

“We’re all doing our part,” Owens replies, gesturing between them. “Every single one of us.”

“But I’m not doing anything,” she protests.

“You’re doing more than you know,” he says simply. “With any luck, this will be a very short chapter in history. Anyhow, I’ve been in here long enough. I’m hoping that the next time we meet, I’ll have a solution to your dilemma.”

“Thank you,” she repeats, but Owens waves it aside.

“I’ll see you in a month.” With that, he turns and snatches up the small device, and leaves the room abruptly.

Joyce stares at the security camera, watches as the red light returns to steady and unblinking.

She continues to gaze at the round, black lens, hoping that someone on the other side will see it — see _her_.

She does this until a nurse (a Martha, dressed in green) comes to fetch her.

It’s a small act, but Joyce wields her defiance like a weapon, even as she ties the white winged bonnet over her head. 

It lightens her steps, lets her breathe more easily as she leaves the facility and climbs back into the town car.

She’s preoccupied on the drive back to the estate, her mind racing to and fro, replaying the conversation with Owens a few times over. He’d given her so much information in so few words, and simultaneously created more than a few burning questions.

Before today, she’d never known the name of Hopper’s late wife.

Diane.

Simple, pretty.

There’s a piqued bit of curiosity about this woman and their daughter, something that she knows she’ll have to keep suppressed.

If she knows anything, Hopper will tell her about it in his own time.

They reach the estate, and Jones pulls the car up around the drive to the front door.

He exits the car to let her out, but something about his mannerisms catches her attention and snaps her out of her fevered, rapid-fire thoughts.

Joyce realizes that he’s lingering far longer than necessary as she gets out of the town car; that he seems to be training his gaze on her, rather than averting it as most Angels typically do.

She glances over her shoulder as she retreats hurriedly into the safety of the house.

He’s still watching her, his eyes and face completely hidden behind the dark goggles, the balaclava.

It’s unnerving, almost predatory, but something tickles at her just beyond the veil of her subconscious.

Something familiar.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. First of all, thank you all so much for your patience. I was aiming to get so much done last week while I was relaxing on vacation, and Sunday night I ended up in the emergency room in the worst pain of my entire life. I was diagnosed with appendicitis and emergency surgery followed shortly after early Monday morning. I spent most of my vacation sleeping instead of writing, lol. Oh well. Such is life.  
> ii. But seriously, thank you all for reading this fic and commenting on it! I hope you enjoyed this chapter - don't worry, Hopper will be back next chapter. :)  
> iii. Owens is here finally! I love Owens, he was one of my favorite people in Season 2. I hope he comes back for Season 3 and beyond.


	14. fourteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Joyce and Flo are busy in the kitchen one afternoon when Hopper returns from the central government district.

The two of them are working together in unison to prepare the next few day’s meals, their hands white and powdery with flour, when they both hear movement at the front of the house.

There are steps down the hallway leading to the kitchen, and then the door swings open, and Hopper stands in the doorway, filling the frame and smiling tiredly at them.

Joyce almost has to look away.

Somewhere in the course of his absence, she’d begun to miss him terribly, and the empty ache of it threatens to momentarily overwhelm her.

He greets them both, and steps into the room to give Flo some updates about travel into the capital city (dangerous here and there), the city itself (insulated, the people inside gladly pulling wool over their eyes) and the state of the government (stable… for now).

Joyce listens with interest while she kneads dough, feeling the softness of it between her fingers.

The things he talks about are endlessly fascinating, despite their somewhat mundane nature.

Her personal world is so small — the estate and town are the only spaces she’s allowed to physically occupy.

At the very least, she can travel to the many, varied settings in her novels, her last refuges against reality.

“Joyce.”

Hopper’s voice stirs her out of her thoughts.

She blinks at him.

“When you have a minute, I’d like to talk to you in the study,” he says, and there’s a warmth to his tone that she hasn’t heard in many years.

For a split second, she wonders if he missed her, too.

She shakes it off, smiles at him.

“Sure. I’ll be there in a bit.”

 

* * *

 

The double doors to the study are open.

As always, Joyce pauses on the threshold.

Hopper is staring out the window behind his desk, but turns when he hears her.

He has dark circles underneath his eyes.

“Come in,” he says, with a half-smile. “You don’t have to wait for permission.”

She enters the room, then pauses, her hand resting on the back of her usual chair.

“Sorry,” she says. “Habit.”

For some reason, her heart is beating so loud she can hear the rhythm of it in her ears.

He scoffs good-naturedly, coming around to the small table that sits off to the side of his desk. There’s a fancy crystal decanter on the table, probably worth more than anything she’s ever owned. It’s half full, the amber liquid most likely whiskey or scotch.

Joyce recalls seeing the level of alcohol change quite often, despite Hopper’s demeanor never really betraying anything other than cold sobriety.

 _Flo must refill it silently_ , she thinks, _and without question._

Along with the cigarettes, the alcohol is probably quite expensive, but Hopper’s status as a Commander affords him certain things that most cannot even contemplate.

He gestures toward her with a glass in hand, both eyebrows raised, a silent question.

“Sure,” she answers.

It’s been a very long time since someone has offered her a drink, so long that it feels like a lifetime has passed.

Hopper pours two glasses — about three fingers in each — then steps forward to give one to her.

His hand brushes against hers, causing her skin to tingle all the way up her arm. It doesn’t escape her attention that he’s standing closer to her than any time previously.

Something is different about him, something she can’t quite figure out.

“Flo tells me that you witnessed an execution last week,” he says calmly, his expression unreadable.

An image flashes across her mind’s eye — silvery-blonde tendrils of hair fluttering in the breeze.

“I did,” she answers, her throat growing tight.

Hopper watches her carefully, taking a swig of his drink, not even making a face. “D’you mind if I ask what you saw?”

Joyce mimics him, sampling a small sip from her glass. It burns her throat, but she tastes honey and caramel on her tongue.

Whiskey.

“It was a Handmaid,” she begins. “A Handmaid and a man. He didn’t look like anyone special.” She pauses to take a deep breath, because the air is suddenly thick. “I think they were trying to escape, and they were caught. The Angels, uh— the Angels made them kneel on the ground, and said some things about the sin of trying to abandon everything when the country is doing so well, and— and then—”

“Joyce,” Hopper says, cutting her off, and there’s that warm tone again. “I’m sorry. Are you okay?”

She stares at him. “Of course I’m okay. Physically, I mean— yes, I’m okay. But I’m so— I’m so _angry,_ Hopper. I’m so angry that innocent people are dead and strung up for just trying to— to escape!”

“I know,” he says. “I know. And you have every right to be angry.”

“We couldn’t do anything about it. We _can’t_ do anything about it, even if we wanted to, and it’s not fair. It’s not fair at all.” She tips the glass back, draining it in one gulp, sputtering a bit when it almost goes down her airway.

Hopper, to his credit, ignores it.

“It’s like you said before, Joyce; everything is about control. They’re trying to make a statement with public executions. The government is stable, but something has them spooked. I don’t know what it could be, though." He drains his glass as well. "For all the time I spent at the capital city, I could barely get Brenner alone. Two weeks and I have nothing new to report. It was a complete waste of time.”

He seems lost in a far away place while he speaks, his eyes clouded with something she can’t decipher.

She’s somewhat lightheaded, unsure if it’s because he’s so close to her, or if it’s because of the alcohol.

Maybe it’s both.

Hopper puts his glass down on the desk behind him.

“I’m sorry you had to witness the execution,” he says quietly, a defeated sigh escaping him. "I'm sorry you're caught up in all of this." He shuts his eyes, pinches the bridge of his nose.

“It’s not your fault.”

“I said I wouldn’t let anything happen to you.”

“And you haven’t.” Joyce shakes her head. “This… this is the way things are, now.”

“I still shouldn’t have left,” he says, opening his eyes again to look at her. There’s a moment where he hesitates, and then he reaches out, gently cups her face with one hand. “I should’ve stayed here.”

His thumb lightly traces along the line of her cheekbone. It feels completely natural, but forbidden at the same time; there’s a boundary being crossed, a very large one.

Joyce can’t seem to find any reason to care.

“I wish you had,” she replies, the words leaving her lips before she can stop them.

Hopper inhales sharply, then steps forward and draws her to his chest, folding her into his arms and tucking her head under his chin.

For a moment she stiffens, unsure of how to respond. The empty glass in her hand tumbles harmlessly to the carpeted floor, rolls away under the desk somewhere.

Then Joyce breathes in the smell of him, and her hesitance vanishes. She winds her arms around his body in return, relaxes into him as she listens to his heartbeat, his breathing.

It’s exactly how he used to hug her when they were young lovers, just two stupid kids who had no idea what life was about.

She’d forgotten how it felt to be embraced, and it’s as though her body is suddenly wide awake and starving; deprived of human contact for so many months that it almost feels _wrong_ to touch him like this.

Hopper makes a noise that rumbles deep in his chest, and she pulls back a fraction, tilts her head to look up at him, meeting that slate blue gaze with her own.

He brushes hair back from her face, briefly glances at her lips.

“We shouldn’t be doing this,” she whispers, because this is dangerous territory, a place they can never come back from.

“You’re right,” he whispers in response.

Neither of them make a move to separate.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. At last... but this is still a slow burn, so... make of that what you will. :)  
> ii. I wanted to post this chapter early today, since work is a bit slow and I actually have some free time to do so.  
> iii. We're just gonna keep on rolling... things are going to pick up very soon. Promise. :)


	15. fifteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Joyce lays awake that night, stares up at the blank ceiling and the shadows that roll across it.

It’s difficult to sleep.

Every nerve ending in her body feels like it sings, electricity sparking in wide arcs across her skin.

She doesn’t remember how long they’d stood there together, her head against his broad chest, his fingertips tracing a path from her hairline down to her shoulders and neck and around again.

She doesn’t remember what prompted them to finally step from each other, Hopper’s gaze intense and grey-blue like an approaching storm.

She remembers the robust scent of whiskey, the milder scent of him mingling with it.

She remembers that she felt safe.

She remembers that she wanted more.

So much more.

 

* * *

 

The first buses carrying recruits arrive the next morning.

They’re black, covered in thick sheets of metal. There are no windows.

Joyce stands in the window of the study, watches them roll down the long, dirt path toward the barracks from the front drive.

Hopper stands next to her, silent.

“Where are they all coming from?” She can’t help but think of the day she was taken from Hawkins.

He hums. “All over the country. Major cities, small towns. What’s left of them, anyway.”

“Midwestern towns?” she asks, unable to keep the hope out of her voice.

Hopper doesn’t answer; instead, his fingers wind through hers until their palms press together.

He tilts his head slightly, looks down at her.

Something is lurking behind his eyes; something he isn’t telling her.

She wants to question it.

 _Let it go, Mom,_ Jonathan says suddenly. His voice is so clear in her head, as if he’s somehow close by.

Hopper squeezes her hand gently.

Joyce turns her attention back to the barracks, watches as bus after bus trundles toward the newly constructed buildings.

She doesn’t say a word.

 

* * *

 

Hopper, Powell, and Callahan spend most of the day at the barracks.

Joyce prepares to head into town. She ties the winged bonnet over her head and puts on her red summer cloak, because the weather is unseasonably warm.

On her way to the kitchen, she pauses near the bottom of the grand staircase.

Jones is standing in the foyer, his gloved hand on the handle of the front door, his face hidden.

For a moment, they stare at each other.

Joyce inclines her head slightly, nods.

Jones doesn’t move. It’s as if he’s made of stone.

She wants to say something, anything, but the words won’t come.

They stay stuck in her throat.

Joyce turns away, leaves the foyer, doesn’t bother to look back.

Rebecca is waiting for her by the back gate.

 

* * *

 

The strange encounter with Jones occupies her thoughts all the way into town and back.

It echoes in her head with each step forward, each movement, each word spoken.

Joyce makes up her mind to ask Hopper about it upon her return, because there’s something vaguely unsettling about the masked Angel; something that’s bothered her since she’d first laid eyes on him.

She makes her way to the study, intent on getting to the bottom of it, but to her surprise, there are two distinct voices arguing behind the closed double doors.

The hushed, low tones are irritated, not quite angry but not quite normal, either.

Joyce finds herself leaning in close, trying to hear what they’re discussing so heatedly. The doors are thick, but she can just make out a conversation—

“I’ll do everything in my power to make sure that she’s safe. It’s the only option we have right now. Our networks aren’t built up enough to smuggle her out to California. I swear to you that the whole time she is here, nothing will happen to her. I swear.”

Hopper, who sounds relatively calm.

“I know, I know! And I trust you on that. But what about the future? We won’t always be able to protect her!”

A second voice, a voice that startles her with its familiarity.

_No._

_It’s not possible._

“I’m well aware of that.” Hopper sounds exasperated. “I’ve been going back and forth with Owens on this, but it’s been tough. There’s all kinds of increased security right now, and he’s a busy man as it is, but he’s got a couple ideas that might be worth pursuing.”

“I hope so, because what are you gonna do when she doesn’t get— get—” The second voice is strained, cracking slightly. “You _know_ they’ll reassign her if nothing happens in six months! And then we can’t— we can’t help her! Not if we want to keep up this little _act_ of ours.”

“You’re right, you’re completely right, but we haven’t figured out a good solution just yet—”

“Jesus Hopper, then we need to think of one! She’s one of the only people I’ve got left, and she doesn’t even know I’m here.” A frustrated sigh follows, one that Joyce knows all too well.

It has to be him; it has to be, but how?

_Breathe, Joyce—_

Joyce flings the door open, startling the two men inside. They turn to stare at her, wide-eyed.

“Joyce,” Hopper says, but she’s not looking at him.

She’s looking at the other man in the room — boy? — no, man.

Jones is in the study with Hopper, his protective gear removed and thrown haphazardly over one of the chairs in front of the desk.

Without his mask and goggles, she can finally see his face.

His hair is cut severely short, and he looks older, so much older, but it’s a face she’s known for almost twenty years.

“Jonathan,” she says, still in disbelief.

“Mom.” He comes to her immediately, wrapping her up into a tight hug. He’s so tall, taller than he used to be; lean and angular and no longer a child in any sense.

“I thought—” she chokes out, pressing her face into his shoulder and breathing in the smell of him. “I thought I’d never see you again.”

“I’m here, Mom,” he whispers, and she can hear the tears in his voice, feel them in the trembling of his shoulders. “I’m here.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Hello Jonathan! :)


	16. sixteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Hopper leaves the two of them alone, claiming that the cat’s out of the bag, now. He smiles at her before he leaves, closing the door of the study behind him.

The next two hours blend into one another, the afternoon sunlight stretching and warping the shadows in the study.

They sit in the chairs in front of Hopper’s desk, facing each other.

Joyce, surprisingly, sheds very few tears.

Instead, she finds herself reaching out every few minutes, curling her fingers around Jonathan’s arm (or his hand, or his shoulder), as if he might vanish at any moment.

He lets her touch him as often as she wants.

Before all this, he might’ve shrugged her off, or given her a strange look.

Before all this, he’d still been a typical teenager; prone to keeping secrets and brooding spells and bouts of moodiness.

The young man in front of her is definitely her son, but he’s been completely, irrevocably changed in the eighteen months since she was taken to the school.

Eighteen months.

It hasn’t been long, but it feels like years and years have gone by.

After the initial waves of emotion from their reunion have passed, the first thing she asks about is Will.

“He’s safe, Mom,” Jonathan tells her. He fiddles with the strap of his dark goggles. “He’s in a safe place right now, with other kids his age. We’re going to bring him here, to the barracks, to the Angel program. Then we’re going to smuggle him out of this place, out to California.” He looks her in the eye. “It was Hopper’s idea.”

Joyce takes a gulp of air into her lungs, trying to reorient herself despite the fact that she’s sitting down.

There are thousands of thoughts and questions spinning through her mind, so many things she wants to know.

“How did you— how did all of this happen?” she asks finally, gesturing at his uniform, the black body armor.

Jonathan quietly studies her for a few moments, uncertainty flickering across his expression and disappearing. He clears his throat, starts from when she was taken from Hawkins.

“We didn’t know where you’d gone,” he says. “Then Dad showed up at the house, and we both knew that something was wrong.”

He tells her about the days immediately afterward, the uncertainty and the lies from Lonnie.

“He told us that you’d run away and left us.” Jonathan snorts derisively. “Like we’d ever believe that.”

Joyce takes one of his hands in both of hers, squeezes gently with a watery smile, words failing to form.

“We spent a few weeks asking around, trying to piece together what had happened.” His voice cracks slightly. “Lots of women were abducted from Hawkins. We figured that you’d been taken somewhere far away, with all the rest of them.”

Jonathan pauses, sniffles, then turns away and coughs. “We, uh— we decided to leave. Me and Will, just the two of us. Dad was useless. So we took my car and left.”

“You just… you just left?”

“Yeah,” he replies, and she catches a minimal eye roll. “It wasn’t hard. We snuck out early one morning and we were gone before he even knew what hit him.”

“Jonathan,” she says, unable to keep the tiniest bit of chastening from her tone.

He grins at her. “I knew you’d have that reaction.”

“I’m still your mother,” she reminds him, but finds herself returning a small grin of her own.

“We drove for hours,” he continues, after a beat. “I’d heard that the best route out of the country was down through Missouri and west through Kansas, that military troops were thinner out that way. We didn’t run into a single Angel, but just as we were about to cross the border into the remaining US territories, the transmission went. Completely dead.

“I wanted to get Will away from this place. It wasn’t safe for him here. It wasn’t safe for any of us, really. So, we got out and started walking. We walked for a long time, but we were out in the open. Sitting ducks with nowhere to hide. That’s when Hopper and his team found us, and took us in.”

Joyce inhales sharply. “What?”

“Yeah, crazy, right?” Jonathan huffs a laugh. “Talk about luck. US Army Special Forces in the middle of nowhere, Kansas. They’d been on their way into the country to go undercover. It’s kinda funny — Hopper recognized who we were almost immediately. Said our last name gave it away.”

“He recognized you?”

“Yeah. ‘Joyce and Lonnie’s boys’ were the first words out of his mouth, after we told him our names. It was kinda spooky, actually.”

Joyce is stunned, unable to conjure a reply. So many years had stretched out between her and Hopper and their relationship — almost two decades worth of pain and resentment because of Lonnie and his abuse, his philandering. She’d never taken the time to wonder if Hopper still kept tabs on her and her little family. 

She files that away for now.

“What happened next?”

“We came here with them. When Hopper found out you were taken from Hawkins, he offered to station me here with him and his team. He put Will into protective custody at a school. It’s within a couple hours of here, run by undercover Mayday operatives. He told me about all the plans the US government has — the plans to get people out to California, to help restore the country again. We’d hoped that we might be able to find you before— before, well…” He trails off, gives her a sad, meaningful look.

Joyce swallows, gives him a small nod.

“What we didn’t expect was for you to be the first Handmaid assigned to the household, but then you showed up two months ago, and I realized that I’d have to improvise for a little while. Keep my presence here a secret.” He looks away for a moment. “That was my idea, by the way. Not Hopper’s. He wanted to tell you as soon as he knew you weren’t compromised.”

She stares at her oldest son, this strange young man that has taken the old Jonathan and twisted him up, up into someone mature and cognizant — someone she doesn’t quite recognize anymore.

“Why did you hide yourself?” she asks. There’s a small wisp of pain that whisks itself through her, but understanding takes root almost immediately following

She somehow already knows what he’s about to say.

“I wanted to wait until we could bring Will here. Maybe that was stupid of me, I don’t know.” He runs an agitated hand through his short hair a few times. “I guess I just thought— I thought it would be a better reunion if all of us were here together, or something.”

Joyce feels her heart break ever so slightly.

She leans forward, takes both of his hands in hers this time. “It’s not stupid. It’s not,” she says gently. “I’m just— I’m so happy to see you. I can’t even put into words how happy I am. I’ve spent every hour of every day thinking about you and Will, wondering if you two were okay, or if— or if you needed my help. I didn’t know if I’d ever see you again, but here you are, and right under my nose this whole time.”

A tear slips down his cheek, drops into his lap. He quickly withdraws from her touch, swiping at his eyes.

“I’m sorry, Mom,” he mumbles, and for a second he’s young again, a small child holding the broken pieces of his favorite toy, looking to her for guidance.

“I don’t care, sweetie. I’m just glad that you’re both safe, that you’re both okay.” She opts to rest her hand on his knee, squeezing gently.

Jonathan rubs at his eyes, his cheeks a few more times before he looks at her again.

“Will’s coming in two days,” he says, his voice thick. “They’re bringing him early in the morning.”

“We’ll meet him together, then,” Joyce says.

“Yeah,” he replies, smiling at her again, most traces of sadness disappearing. “Yeah. He’ll be so happy to see you. It’ll be great.”

“It’ll be great,” she echoes.

 

* * *

 

Hopper stands outside at the back of the house, smoking and facing the barracks, squinting into the fading daylight.

The sun is setting, the clouds pink and blue and violet in the distant sky.

Joyce opens the kitchen door, steps outside to join him.

The evening is still warm; wisps of cigarette smoke float lazily on a faint breeze.

“I’m sorry I didn’t tell you,” he says after a few drawn out moments. “I wanted to.”

“I know. He told me.”

Hopper glances at her, and then away again. “He reminded me so much of Lonnie when we first found him.” A pause, a final drag. “But he’s definitely got more of you in him. Both of them do.” He drops the cigarette to the ground, crushes it under his heel.

Joyce watches him, doesn’t say anything.

“They’re, uh— they’re bringing Will here in the next couple days. Whatever you need, you just let me know.”

There’s an open expression of pain on his face, a tightness in his jaw; an unmistakable display of old grief suddenly brought to the surface.

Her heart aches and aches.

 _I won’t let anything happen to you._ His voice echoes inside her mind, deep and solemn.

She brushes her knuckles against his, featherlight and fleeting. It stirs something else up within her, that odd, insistent prodding that she’s tried to ignore for weeks.

Hopper gently twines his fingers with hers, his thumb tracing little circles on the skin of her hand.

His touch provokes a curious feeling — a loss of balance, instability, as if they’re precariously teetering on the edge of… of something.

She _knows_ what it is, she’s always known, but can’t bring herself to name it.

Life is so fragile, so tenuous these days.

She wants to say many things, chooses to bite her tongue instead; superstitiously locks all of it away inside herself.

 _I won’t let anything happen to you, either,_ she thinks.

It’s a silent promise; an oath that joins the few others she can still keep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I looooove Jonathan so much!! I couldn't wait to bring him into the story. :)  
> ii. Thank you all so much for the amazing feedback on the last chapter - it really made my week! I love the Stranger Things fandom so much. Y'all are just pure excellence. :)


	17. seventeen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

Three o’clock in the morning is a curious time to be awake at the estate.

The moon is full, filling the room with eerie, silver light and long, dark shadows.

Joyce lies in bed, her hands clasped across her abdomen.

Will is coming in the morning, and she can’t sleep.

Seeing Jonathan was a shock to her system — completely unexpected, leaving her raw and exposed. Yet somehow, some way, it pales in comparison to the anticipation of being able to hug her younger son; the ability to have them both within arm’s reach once more.

Down the hall, she hears a door open and close, the hinges protesting quietly.

Hopper.

She wonders why he’s awake at this hour, wracks her brain for an explanation, but finds nothing suitable.

He’s been acting odd here and there for the last few days. There are moments when his behavior seems to be on autopilot, a strange, glazed look in his eyes.

Hopper had always worn his emotions a little bit more outwardly than most, a fact that hasn’t been lost on her.

She knows there’s probably a jumbled mess in his head, varying skeins of emotions that are too tangled in past and present for him to easily sort through.

Soft footsteps descend the grand staircase.

Joyce is up and out of bed before she really knows what she’s doing, her feet silent on the carpet of her room. Her door doesn’t squeak, doesn’t make a sound, really.

She stands at the top of the staircase, looking down into the darkness of the foyer below. Her heart flutters wildly in her chest.

Something tickles at her subconscious. 

She ignores it, descends the stairs without a sound, an odd specter in red.

One of the doors to the study is ajar.

Joyce pauses, then creeps forward, peering cautiously around the other door.

Hopper is in the study alone, facing away from her.

The crystal decanter is in one hand, a tumbler in the other.

Even though the lights have been left off, the moon provides enough illumination to see that he’s trembling.

He pours himself a drink, the decanter and the tumbler clinking loudly against each other, a crystalline chatter in the darkness.

Some of the liquor sloshes over the lip of the glass, and Hopper curses a few times under his breath. He sets the tumbler down abruptly, staring at the empty decanter in his grasp.

Without warning, he turns to his left and launches it toward one of the bookshelves.

It hits loudly, shatters into hundreds of pieces, the tiny shards tinkling against the floor, the desk, the books.

Joyce flinches slightly, but she feels no fear; only sadness, empathy. She lived through having her family viciously torn away from her, and here she is about to be reunited with both of them at once.

The broken pieces glitter in the moonlight, hundreds of sparkling stars.

Hopper can never see his family, never touch them or hug them again.

She wonders what he would give; what terrible things he would do just to have the _chance_.

Hopper stands there for a long time with his head bowed forward, seemingly unaware of her presence, his breathing ragged, his shoulders shaking.

There’s a deep well beneath the surface, a wide reservoir of invisible pain that no one can touch; only him, and him alone.

Joyce slips away after several minutes, her ears and cheeks burning because she’s intruded upon something profoundly intimate.

If he notices or hears her, he doesn’t acknowledge it.

The shattered remains of the decanter are gone in the morning.

A new one has taken its place, three-quarters full, the amber liquid glowing in the sun.

 

* * *

 

The sun is bright in the mid-morning sky.

Joyce waits in the study, smoothing her sweaty palms over and over and over the pleats of her dress. It doesn’t matter how often she repeats the motion; she’s nervous as hell.

She shouldn’t be, but she is.

Jonathan waits with her, his arms crossed tightly across his chest while he nibbles anxiously at a thumbnail. Every so often, he paces a small trail back and forth in front of the large desk, the same number of steps each time.

Joyce knows this because she counts each one, thinks that he must be counting them too.

The door opens, and Will is standing there next to another Angel, a soldier cloaked in black armor and dark goggles and a face mask identical to Jonathan’s. The Angel is thin and only slightly taller than Will, which Joyce would find utterly strange if her younger son weren’t paused in the doorway, his eyes wide.

“Mom?” he says softly.

“Hey, baby,” she replies, and they stare at each other for only a whisper of a moment before they meet in the middle, hugging tightly.

Joyce feels the tears burn in her eyes and freely lets them flow, feels them slide down her cheeks and into his hair.

He smells the same, feels the same in her arms, but he’s different now too — he’s taller, his hair is short, his face is less round, his cheekbones are more sharply angled.

Her little boy has grown up so much in the past eighteen months, and that acute, raging anger begins to burn again, deep within her; it burns bright and hot because she was forced to miss almost two years of Will’s life, of Jonathan’s life.

“I thought we’d never see each other again,” she tells him. “I spent hours and hours, just— just _hoping_ we’d find each other, somehow.”

“Me too, Mom.” Will’s voice is thick with tears. “We both did.”

Joyce looks to Jonathan. He’s standing a few feet away, smiling, furiously blinking back against tears.

The short Angel stands beside him, goggles and facemask removed — surprisingly, she’s a young woman, more than a few years beyond girlhood, but probably no older than eighteen. Her brown hair is scraped back off her face, tied into a tight bun. She wears a teary smile, but there is a trace of neutral coldness that threads through her expression, her posture.

It’s identical to what Joyce has seen in Jonathan, in the little time she’s spent with him so far.

In the hours that pass, sadness creeps around her heart, extinguishes the anger and fury altogether.

Sadness for her two sons, sadness for all the children trapped in this godforsaken country.

Children who’ve been forced to grow up much, much faster than she ever did.

 

* * *

 

A week passes by, and then another.

The date of the second Ceremony comes and goes.

Hopper encourages Jonathan and Will to spend as much time as they can at the estate.

Their visits are cautious, measured, quiet.

Joyce relishes each second, each moment; soaks up the brightness of Will, the wryness of Jonathan.

She sits with Hopper in the study every evening.

He still asks her opinions on things, wants to know what she thinks, but there’s a strangeness to him; a part that’s closed off, the windows shuttered, doors locked, and so far away from her.

She lies in bed at night, remembers the mirrored pain she saw in his expression during the night of the first Ceremony.

Remembers the decanter shattering into hundreds of glittering shards, each piece reflecting moonlight in the darkness.

Maybe he’ll talk about it, maybe he won’t.

Then, one night, he does.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Poor Hopper. :(  
> ii. Don't worry, I'm going to leave Will alone! I think he's suffered enough in his own universe... I'm not going to to cause him too much additional suffering (beyond what he's already gone through) in this one.  
> iii. I normally don't want to spoil my own fanfics, but I can't help myself... next chapter earns the rating for sure. :)


	18. eighteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

The deep rumbling of thunder wakes her.

The room is dark, and then lightning strikes close by, the flash of it almost blinding.

Sharp crackling follows immediately, causing the windows to rattle.

Joyce shrinks under the covers, wishing for it to stop.

Storms have always left her unsettled.

After several booming claps of thunder, she sits up in bed.

There’s little reason to try and go back to sleep at this point. The wind howls in the eaves, as though the storm is obstinately refusing to die down any time soon.

She creeps down the grand staircase, her steps silent against the carpeting. Lightning streaks across the black sky, briefly illuminating the large foyer and casting it in an eerie light, like something out of a horror movie.

Outside, rain begins to fall in sheets. It pounds against the large windows, the roar of it echoing off the high ceiling.

Joyce continues down the hallway to the kitchen.

Her mouth is uncomfortably dry, and all she wants is a drink of water.

As she enters the kitchen, she’s startled to find that it’s occupied by none other than Hopper, who is sitting at the table, slightly hunched over and smoking a cigarette.

There’s an empty bottle of in front of him, along with an empty glass.

The clock on the wall shows that it’s just after midnight. All of the lights are off except the small, dim one over the sink.

The crystal decanter is nowhere to be seen. Despite the late hour he’s still in his uniform, but it’s unkempt and mussed, as if he’d fallen asleep in it. His jacket is draped over a chair, and his tie is undone, hanging limply around his neck.

There are no airs of pretension in this moment, none of the deception that goes along with the status and rank of his alter ego.

Right now, he’s just Hopper.

“Hey,” he says, his voice low.

The air in the room reeks of alcohol, but she ignores it.

“Hey,” she replies casually, moving toward to the cupboard to grab a glass for herself. “Couldn’t sleep?”

“No,” he says, his face mostly obscured by the shadows. “You?”

She turns on the tap, fills the glass with water. “Nope. Too loud.”

He hums placidly in response.

Joyce approaches the table. “May I?”

His answer comes after a long few moments. “Sure.”

She draws a chair out, takes a seat as a rapid-flash series of lighting strikes occur.

He’s looking directly at her, his eyes hollow and sad, and then the room goes dark again.

The only thing visible is the burning end of his cigarette.

She takes a long sip of water, careful not to make a sound. There is something hanging in the atmosphere between them, dense and charged and electric, like the storm that rages outside.

Silence.

Then—

“Sara loved thunderstorms,” Hopper says suddenly, slurring a bit. “Used to make me sit up with her to watch them. God, it was amazing sometimes. Just— just seeing the thunderheads roll in...”

 _Sara_. Joyce thinks. _Diane and Sara. Wife and daughter._

She’s quiet at this admission, waits for him to go on.

“Sorry,” he says, and his voice is thick. “Didn’t mean to—”

“Don’t apologize,” Joyce says quickly, interrupting him. “Don’t. Just— you don’t need to.”

Lightning flares again, and for a moment she can see that he’s still gazing at her, his expression now neutral, unreadable.

“She was your daughter,” she continues. “And if I know anything, she meant everything to you.”

Hopper makes a noise that she can’t quite discern over the storm.

“Yeah,” he says finally. “Yeah. She did. She still does.”

The room is illuminated by a particularly bright blaze of lightning, and they stare at each other in the brief flash of light before it dissolves; ear-splitting crashes of thunder follow right away.

“She always will,” Joyce says, once the thunder dies down. “That’s something you should never, ever apologize for.”

Another lightning strike, this one prolonged, but maybe slightly further away than before.

Her vision has finally adjusted, and she can still see him, even when the light fades.

His lips are pressed together into a thin line, his eyes searching her face.

“You’re a good man, you know,” she says quietly, once the darkness and quiet has returned.

“I dunno about that.” He sounds grim. “There’s blood on my hands. I’ve done a lot of things I’m not proud of.”

“We all have,” Joyce replies. “For example, I married Lonnie Byers.”

He snorts. “I guess you’ve got me beat there.”

They fall silent for several minutes, both of them listening as the storm begins to ebb — the rain falls more gently, the thunder moves further and further away.

“What was Diane like?” Joyce asks, the question escaping against her better judgment.

Hopper doesn’t answer for a little while, long enough that she worries she's crossed a significant boundary. He takes a few drags of his cigarette in quiet contemplation, then stubs it out in the ashtray on the table.

“Diane was an amazing person,” he says. “Better than I’ll ever be. She saw the good in everyone, no matter how small.” He chuckles dryly. “She would’ve hated this place, what this country’s become.

“There are days that I’m actually glad she didn’t have to see any of this…” Hopper trails off and pauses, tilts his head a bit and gazes at her as lightning flickers outside the windows. “Still, we had ten good years together. We had Sara. I don’t regret a single minute of it.”

Joyce says nothing, just returns his gaze with a small smile.

He scrubs a hand over his face, looks away for a moment before continuing.

“It’s been three years since they passed away,” he says. His voice is slightly raspy. “At first, I thought my life was over, but Diane wouldn’t have wanted me to stay stuck. Both of them would’ve wanted me to get my shit together, keep on living. So I did.” He sighs. “Every day, it gets a little bit easier. That has to count for something, right?”

“I think so,” Joyce replies after a beat, “but there’s not some— some timeline that you have to follow. There will _always_ be good days and bad days. You keep on living, and eventually the good days outnumber the bad.”

Hopper studies her intently. “Sounds like you speak from experience.”

“Well…” she trails off, shakes her head. “I guess we've both lost things we never expected to lose.” She gestures at her red nightgown, lets the implication of it sink in.  

A deeply chastened look crosses his face, and he closes his eyes.

“That’s why I’m here,” he says, his voice cracking. “I couldn’t save my family. I couldn’t— I couldn’t protect them. When the country fell, I wanted to do something, so I did the best thing I could think of.” The words sound regretful, heavy, like he’s serving a willing penance.

“I know,” she replies, trying to suppress the growing lump in her throat.

“Brenner and every single one of those bastards responsible should be rotting on that Wall.” His tone becomes dark, ugly and angry, so unlike him.

Joyce reaches across the table, lays her hand on top of his.

Hopper’s eyes open again and meet hers, and though she tries to ignore the rush that zips through her, lighting up every nerve ending in her body, she can tell he’s feeling it too.

“I think we should both try and get some sleep,” she says.

Thunder rumbles, but it’s far away now, somewhere off in the distance.

“Yeah.” He takes a deep breath, exhales long and slow. “Yeah, that’s probably a good idea.”

 

* * *

 

“You know, it’s funny,” she says as they walk, side by side, up the grand staircase. “Red is my favorite color. Well, it used to be, I guess, but now… now I think I could go the rest of my life without wearing it.”

Hopper pauses on the landing outside his bedroom, turning to face her. His face is serious.

“Once we get you, Jonathan, and Will out of here, you’ll never have to wear it again. Promise.” He reaches out with one hand and laces his fingers through hers, rubs his thumb over the skin of her wrist, right above her pulse — a gesture of affection they used to share years ago.

Suddenly, she’s trying in vain to calm her rapid heartbeat, embarrassed that he might feel it skittering about erratically.

 _He’s probably just drunk_ , she tells herself, but as she gazes up at him, the softness in his eyes is completely unexpected.

“Joyce, I— I think things should’ve been different,” he says, giving voice to something she suspects he’s carried around for nearly twenty years. “I should’ve been better to you.”

 _Oh._ Joyce drops her eyes to the floor, searches for words.

“We were so young, Hop… You went off to war, and I didn’t. Besides, we can’t change any of it.” Her reply is gentle, but her chest aches and aches and aches, her heart at the center of a whirlwind.

“You don’t have to make excuses for me,” Hopper mumbles, glancing down at their joined hands, then back up to her. “I shouldn't have just— just abandoned you like that. You didn’t deserve it.” He clears his throat, swallows. “When I finally came back stateside, I didn’t even know how to _begin_ to fix things, so I stayed away. I never thought I’d have the chance to make things right, but somehow… well. Here we are.”

Something has shifted between them, imperceptible before but thrumming in the air now, nearly tangible.

“Yes,” she agrees. “Here we are.”

He touches her face, his fingertips light.

“You’re drunk,” she says, almost defensively; worries that he’ll snap out of it, realize what he’s doing, and pull away.

“Not really,” he retorts after a beat, one corner of his mouth pulling up into a half-smile.

“Yes, really,” she scolds, but she returns the smile.

Belatedly, she realizes that they’ve closed the space between them.

His breath is warm on her cheeks, and it’s suddenly very, very difficult to remember that they now exist in a world meant to keep them apart.

The way he’s looking at her takes her right back to twenty years ago, when he was just Hopper and she was just Joyce. It helps her forget about the roles they’re playing, helps her forget that he’s a Commander and she’s a Handmaid, diametrically opposed, one the perfect inverse of the other.

Hopper runs the pad of his thumb over her bottom lip. “Can I…?”

His eyes are very blue.

Joyce nods.

He kisses her once, twice before he hesitates, searching her face — for what, she doesn’t know.

He looks wild and unsure, oddly young despite his years.

_Things should’ve been different._

Joyce kisses him this time, threading her fingers through his hair and pulling him down. His arms find their way around her, gather her close, and then a million restraints seem to give way all at once.

Hopper’s slightly clumsy — his teeth nearly bump hers, his limbs are too long and their heights are too uneven — but somehow they fumble their way into the darkness of his bedroom, the door closing behind them.

He tastes like whiskey and smells like tobacco and somehow it’s all still the same as it was, but it’s different now, too.

_We can’t change any of it._

They tip back together onto the bed, utterly and entirely graceless, but it doesn’t matter once he licks into her mouth, stealing the gasps from her throat. Joyce clutches at his shoulders and back, digs her nails into his muscles, wanting nothing more than to be closer, closer.

His lips linger over the fluttering pulse in her neck, and his fingers slip beneath the hem of her nightgown as if to answer her silent requests.

There’s a pause when he sit back on his heels, pulls the red garment over her head, makes short work of his tie and button-down shirt.

Joyce reaches out, touches the bare skin of his chest, traces her fingertips over several thick, jagged lines of scar tissue. They run haphazardly across his sternum and abdomen — old, secret wounds sealed tightly shut against the present.

Hopper watches her, his eyes bright in the shadows.

There’s so much about him that she knows, and so much that’s still a mystery.

The sharply growing heat in her belly pools low and deep between her thighs.

Her hand drops, fingertips skimming along the waistline of his slacks, then his belt.

She looks up at him.

_Here we are._

He leans down and kisses her again.

 

* * *

 

Joyce opens her eyes.

The first thing she sees is the broad slope of Hopper’s back.

He’s sleeping on his stomach, facing away from her; his arms are curled around the pillow underneath his head.

His skin is pockmarked with small, decades-old scars from a nasty childhood bout with the chicken pox. They’ve faded over the years, but they’re all still there. She remembers connecting them with a magic marker during the summer between ninth and tenth grade.

 _Now you have constellations on your back, Jimmy_ , she’d said, waggling the marker at him when she was finished.

 _No one calls me Jimmy anymore_ , he’d replied with a smirk, trying in vain to admire her handiwork.

She shakes herself loose of her memories, takes a few moments to stop and recall the night before.

Lightning.

Thunder.

Hopper kissing her in the shadows of the landing.

His hands, rough and calloused, on her bare skin.

Her nightgown discarded on the floor, a red island of silk in a sea of blackness.

The dark curtains are drawn, but the room is beginning to take shape amid the muted colors of early morning.

There’s a pleasant ache between her thighs, something she hasn’t felt in years.

The house is perfectly still.

For several minutes, she just focuses on her breathing.

In through her nose, out through her mouth.

The room is a cocoon, cool and insulated against the reality of the outside world.

Hopper stirs, turns to look at her, his eyes clouded with sleep.

“Hey,” he mumbles, trying to run a hand through his hair, smooth it down. It’s still sticking up on one side, rumpled and messy.

There’s something sweet about it, endearing even.

“Hey,” she replies coyly, pulling the black sheets away from her body, revealing her breasts, the smooth skin of her abdomen.

There’s a sudden intake of breath through his teeth, a sound that she takes great pleasure in invoking.

“C’mere,” he says, reaching for her. Any hesitation is now long gone, not even a lingering afterthought.

Several minutes later, she’s looking down at him in the dim light.

His eyes are electric, almost glowing.

“Joyce.” His voice is deep and husky, wanting.

She sinks herself onto him, every nerve in her body singing.

He stutters out a groan, cups her hips with his hands as he moves inside her.

She braces one hand against his chest, slips her other hand between their bodies, touches herself as she matches his thrusts.

“Hopper,” she breathes.

His fingertips dig into her skin, biting and bruising and sharp.

There’s a certain kind of power wielded here; something she holds deep within, something she’s always held.

It anchors itself between them, steady and unyielding, entirely and completely dangerous.

Joyce can see it reflected in his gaze.

She hits the peak first, shivers and gasps her way through it; claps her palm over her mouth, attempting to muffle her moans as much as she can.

Suddenly he’s pushing at her hips, breathing ragged and eyes wide; there’s a sobering flash of understanding, and she quickly rolls off of him.

“Fuck, I— I’m gonna—” he chokes out, stroking himself a few times before he comes in thick spurts across his abdomen.

Several long moments pass before his eyes find hers again.

There’s an odd, brief flicker of awkwardness and shy vulnerability that passes between them, but then it’s gone.

There’s far too much history for either of them to feel strange about this; far too many shared memories.

They watch each other as their heartbeats slow.

His pupils are dilated wide in the shadows of the room. There’s a bead of sweat along his hairline, a faint flush high in his cheeks.

Joyce sits next to him, her knees tucked up to her chest. She traces a finger along the tendons and veins in his wrist, his forearm.

In response, Hopper curls his hand around hers, tugging it up so he can brush his lips against her knuckles.

He briefly looks at her like he used to, looks at her like he did when he loved her, and they were young and none of this was real, yet.

She can almost catch a glimpse of _something_ — something that beckons her forward into the future and beyond — but it falls away before she can grasp it.

Reluctantly he gets up, disappears into the dark bathroom to clean himself off, and she’s surprised by how much her body aches at the loss of his presence.

Joyce lies back against the sheets and the pillows, stares at the ceiling.

Maybe she never stopped loving him, even after all this time; maybe they were always meant to return to each other, somehow.

It’s a silly notion and she knows it, but…

Hopper comes back to bed, gently rests his hand on her bare thigh, stirring her from her thoughts.

She turns to look at him, sees the million things he’s thinking, the words beginning to form on his lips.

“Joyce, I—”

“Don’t,” she interrupts, cutting him off, because she can’t (no, she _won’t_ ) hear it, any of it.

Not here, not in this house.

Not while she still wears shackles in the shape of a red dress.

“I— I know you probably have a lot to, um— to say,” she stammers, after a few agonizing seconds of searching for the right words. “There’s so much I want to say, too, but I— I just… I can’t talk about any of this. Not right now.”

She watches understanding bloom across his face, and he nods slowly.

“Okay.” Hopper reaches for her, pulls her in close. “Okay. We can talk later, then.”

She relaxes into his embrace with a sigh, takes comfort in his familiar smell as his hands rub circles down her back.

“Later,” she whispers, her lips against his skin.

The moment is preserved for a little while longer, the spell still unbroken.

Joyce listens to his breathing.

It flows in and out, measured and even, a tide washing over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. I'm glad Hopper can finally talk to someone about his past... poor dude needs a therapist, no matter what universe he's in.  
> ii. I'll admit I had a teeny tiny bit of difficulty with this chapter? Some of it flowed really well, other parts I wrote and rewrote like 10-15 times. Whoops. Hopefully it all makes sense and sounds OK. I've looked at it one too many times with my own eyes.  
> iii. FINALLY the slow burn is over. Now the real fun can start. :) More characters coming soon.


	19. nineteen.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

A week passes.

Joyce sleeps in her own bed each night, alone; drifts off remembering what happened behind the closed doors of the bedroom down the hall.

It’s not that things are different (because _oh, they’re different_ ).

It’s not that she doesn’t want him (because _oh, she does_ ).

Something in the back of her mind is nagging at her, insistently telling her that this is undeserved.

She doesn’t know if it’s echoes of Lonnie or the brainwashing of the Aunts.

Maybe it’s a bit of both, illogical threads all twisted up inside her head and unable to be sorted easily, the unraveling achingly and painfully slow.

Hopper seems to understand somehow, his touch lingering politely, only when they’re alone and when no one can see it; his lips pressing to her hair and nowhere else.

Every part of her aches for him, but her mind has her temporarily held prisoner, locked away against her will.

 _They didn’t destroy you at that school_. Hopper’s voice is quiet amongst all the thoughts in her head, but it’s still there.

Now she understands exactly what he meant; understands exactly what the Aunts were trying to do to her and all those other women trapped in there with her.

In her old life, she never would’ve thought twice about any of this.

Maybe they didn’t destroy her, but in her new life, she’s reminded — every waking moment — of everything she’s lost.

 

* * *

 

“Okay, now— you’re just going to feel a little pinch.”

A slight sting at the crook of her elbow, then a cool, rushing feeling that travels up to her shoulder.

Joyce watches as Commander Owens leans over her forearm, taking four small vials of blood. The red liquid inside them appears to glow under the fluorescent lights, the color matching her dress nearly perfectly.

She flexes her fingers a bit, the tips tingling and numb.

“I think,” he says thoughtfully, his eyes flickering to hers, “that I’ve figured out a solution to your little deadline problem.”

She raises both eyebrows. “Really?”

He nods, glancing back down.

The needle slides out of her arm, and then Owens presses a thick wad of cotton into her skin, firmly tapes it in place.

After a few moments, Joyce rolls her sleeve back down over her pale, exposed skin.

“I’m going to trick the lab equipment,” he explains. “I can rig it in such a way that you’ll appear to be pregnant, which will buy you some time.”

She stares at him in disbelief. “You can actually do that?”

“More or less.” Owens has her chart neatly balanced on one knee, and he nods to himself as he scribbles several words in barely legible handwriting.

“So what we’ll do,” he continues, finishing his notes with a flourish, “is wait until just before the six month mark. Then we fool the equipment, which extends your time in the household. We anticipate that the first major route out to California will be complete in about four months. If everything goes according to plan, you and your sons be one of the first families with a ticket out of here.”

Joyce frowns slightly, her thoughts running a mile a minute, momentarily taking her far away from the cold, sterile atmosphere of the clinic.

“What about you and Hopper? The rest of Mayday?” she hears herself ask. Her voice doesn’t sound like her own.

“We’ll stay here as long as we need to,” he replies after a beat. “The moment this operation is compromised, we can shut it down and request an extraction for any and all exposed operatives within the city.”

Joyce absorbs this information, and her mind rapidly connects the dots, reaching a conclusion that she doesn’t want to accept.

“But there’s no guarantee that you’ll get one, right?” she guesses, feeling a leaden weight sink into the pit of her stomach.

He doesn’t answer for a little while; instead, he looks away, looks at her charts, looks at anything _but_ her.

“Our objective here is to get as many kids out as possible. Operatives are at the bottom of the priority list. So, to answer your question… no,” Owens says finally, meeting her gaze carefully, deliberately. “No, there isn’t.”

Joyce returns his gaze, her expression neutral, but acute nausea begins to spread through her, raging like a wildfire. She almost covers her mouth, but chooses instead to swallow back against the bitter, acidic bile that creeps up her esophagus.

“I understand,” she replies, but it’s completely insincere.

Owens doesn’t appear to notice.

 

* * *

 

That afternoon, Joyce goes through the motions of preparing dinner with Flo.

They speak quietly about the Mayday operations within the New Republic, almost under their breath.

Somewhere during the course of her assignment, she’d been given the privilege of knowing specific things about the Mayday resistance as a whole, although most of this knowledge is fractured and incomplete.

What she does know for certain is that all Mayday households operate as individual cells — with limited but crucial information passing back and forth between them.

They function in such a way that if one is compromised, it can fall, while the others continue to work in secret.

The conversation with Owens echoes in her mind as she cleans and chops vegetables, dices meat into cubes.

“The two of us have a lot preparation to do in the next few weeks,” Flo says, drawing Joyce out of her thoughts.

“What’s going on?”

“Commander Brenner will be arriving in about a month to inspect the Academy. The presentation of the house needs to be flawless.” Flo pauses, giving her a knowing, pointed look. “Our behavior needs to be exactly as he expects it to be.”

Joyce grasps the meaning of the look immediately, feels her cheeks redden. “Oh, I— um, yes. Yes, of course.”

They continue to work, and there’s a long stretch of silence before the older woman speaks again.

“You know, I’ve been involved in this kind of work for a long time,” Flo begins, her tone nonchalant, casual. “These types of things _do_ occasionally pop up. You’d be surprised.”

“It just kind of— um, well, it just kind of happened. It doesn’t have to happen again,” Joyce replies hastily, suddenly embarrassed and worried that she’s about to endure a lecture. “I want the country to go back to how it was, or close to it, I guess. I would never— I’d never do anything that could compromise Mayday.”

“That's not exactly what I meant,” Flo says, and sadness crosses her expression before quickly vanishing. “I was in your position once. I know what it’s like. There’s no telling what will happen today, or tomorrow, or even the day after, especially in this hellish excuse for a society. Life is short. As long as we play our roles, everything should be fine. Just be very careful.”

Joyce nods mutely, accepts this, bites her lip against a sudden rush of emotion in her chest as she adds the vegetables and meat to a large dish.

She carefully arranges everything the way that Flo would, then slips the dish into the oven before excusing herself to one of the downstairs powder rooms.

Joyce looks at her reflection in the small mirror above the sink. Her eyes follow the high red neckline of her dress, the shiny tautness of her hair (pulled back into a tight bun, as is required of all Handmaids), the fabric of her long sleeves.

Everything she’s been feeling, every negative emotion seems to coalesce into some kind of massive guilt — guilt that she shouldn’t even begin to entertain, because it makes no sense.

A deep breath in, then out.

Happiness — _her_ happiness — should be allowed to exist in this strange, oppressive place, even in small doses.

She pushes the guilt from her shoulders, lets it trail down, down to somewhere else, where all the darkness in the world can’t ever bring it back.

 

* * *

 

Late that evening, Joyce leaves her room and treads down the hallway, bare feet silent against the carpet.

She knocks lightly — once, twice.

A third time.

Hopper opens his bedroom door, looks down at her in the dim light, his expression a mix between confused and cautious.

They stare at each other wordlessly; only a few moments pass by before he moves aside to let her in, closing the door behind her.

He says nothing as he crosses the room, unbuttoning the cuffs of his shirt, shrugging out of it before he sits on the edge of the bed.

The scarring stretches across his torso, faint lines that move with him in the shadows.

There’s a beat where she doesn’t know what to do, but she shakes it off, decides that it doesn’t matter.

 _Life is short,_ she thinks, approaching him and standing between his knees, brazenly close and yet somehow still too far.

Hopper reaches up and undoes her bun, gently combs his fingers through her hair as it tumbles down across her shoulders, every bit of contact sending currents of heat and desire through her body.

She shivers, the eroticism of it curious and thrilling and entirely foreign.

“You sure about this?” he asks, his voice soft, and she knows him well enough to understand that the question is multi-layered, unsubtly containing more than one inquiry.

There’s something oddly powerful and intoxicating about the fact that he wants her, and wants her on equal ground with him, instead of at the mercy of their very contrary roles.

“Yes,” she answers. “More than sure.”

“Okay,” he replies.

Hopper kisses her, light and almost questioning.

Joyce takes his face in her hands, kisses him back properly, her tongue tracing his lower lip.

Maybe it’s risky, maybe it’s entirely selfish, but they loved each other once, in the past.

The familiarity of it is a comfort she desperately wants in the present.

Judging by his responses to her — the sharp bite of his teeth against her skin, the quickness of his breath, the eagerness in his touch — he wants it, too.

His hand trails down, down, slips beneath the hem of her nightgown; his fingers skim the wetness between her thighs, and he smiles against her lips. 

She sighs into him, words failing her, and then all other thoughts drop away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Apologies for the angst, this chapter kind of wraps up a lot of that and we'll be moving on to the rest of the plot now.  
> ii. I'm literally jonesin' for Season 3 content... D: I don't know how much longer I can take this hiatus. Ugh!  
> iii. This fic is almost 100 pages in Word and almost 30,000 words. IDK how the eff that happened.


	20. twenty.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

_One Month Later_

 

* * *

 

“Joyce.”

A male voice whispers near her ear.

She stirs a bit.

“Joyce,” the voice says again, drawn out slightly, accompanied by fingertips tracing a path down her upper arm.

“Five more minutes,” she responds sleepily, for a moment unsure of where she is. She’s warm and comfortable, basking in the heat of a body behind her.

There’s a deep-chested chuckle. “Any other day, I’d be okay with that.”

Joyce opens her eyes to a dark room, and everything comes flooding back in an instant.

The deep black of the shadows and pale, pastel colors from behind the curtain indicate that the sun is just beginning to rise.

She briefly meets Hopper’s gaze in the dim light; watches as he idly moves his fingers across her skin. It’s become a habit of his as of late, a quirky little fascination.

Maybe it’s because she’s always covered — always cloaked from head to toe, drowning in heavy red fabric.

Sometimes he draws crude patterns or shapes; other times he spells out words, pauses and waits for her to say them out loud.

There are words like MAYDAY and BEAUTIFUL and RAINSTORM. The words GODDAMN and even FUCK have gotten in there at some point, making her stifle giggles against the back of her hand.

Now he spells out H-E-A-V-E-N — heaven — and she looks at him.

He avoids meeting her eyes, traces the same word a second time, then a third.

“Today’s the day,” she says softly.

Hopper nods. “You ready?”

“I think so,” she replies, thinking back over the numerous late night discussions they’ve had in the last several weeks — whispered conversations while their heartbeats slowed to a normal rhythm, while the sweat dried on their skin.

“You’ll be fine,” he says. “I’m more worried about those knuckleheads down at the barracks.” He smirks as he speaks, but she can tell that he’s trying (and failing) to disguise his nerves.

His anxiety is so strong, so palpable that it's practically radiating outward.

Joyce tucks herself up against him, bare skin to bare skin; trails her fingers through the hair on his chest, traces along a particularly thick, knotted band of scar tissue that crosses his right pectoral muscle.

He hums in response.

“What’s this one from?” she asks.

“Charlie,” he answers, after a beat. “Vietnam. 1967. Stabbed me with a knife during an ambush.”

“A knife did this?”

“Got infected,” he murmurs, running a large hand down the outside her thigh, and back up. “Almost went septic from it. Took me weeks to recover.”

“Ah.” Joyce outlines it a few times, feels him shudder beneath her touch. She looks up and meets his gaze, which has darkened considerably. “You seem a bit… tense.”

“You could say that,” he replies casually, but his voice is husky. His pupils are wide, nearly blacking out the blue of his irises.

“Five more minutes?” Her tone is playful, innocent.

Hopper laughs under his breath, then presses a kiss to the side of her neck, rolling to his forearms so he’s looming over her.

“Okay. Five more minutes.”

 

* * *

 

The household is full of nervous energy.

Even Flo, who is normally calm and unflappable, seems apprehensive, on edge.

The large house is spotless, every nook cleaned and every cranny dusted.

The banisters of the grand staircase are polished to a high, glossy shine. They gleam in the sunlight.

Powell and Callahan are dressed nearly identically — their faces are uncovered, and their body armor looks brand new. They each wear long rifles slung across their backs, along with twin pistols in holsters on their hips.

It’s rare that the two Angel captains are armed to the teeth, but Joyce supposes that they’re doing it for show, if nothing else.

Hopper looks the same as he always does, his navy dress uniform immaculate and his decorations precisely set. He’s already slipped into the Commander personality, his features arranged into an emotionless, icy mask.

The ease with which he switches back and forth is eerie, almost as if the Commander and Hopper have begun to bleed into one another after all this time of living a dual life.

 _Maybe they have_ , she muses to herself, smoothing her clammy palms over the pleats of her dress for the hundredth time.

Joyce wears her usual red ensemble, but Flo has taken the opportunity to pin a plain white bonnet over her hair. It doesn’t hide her eyes or restrict her vision, but the older woman mutters something about respect and zealotry and hogwash that Joyce doesn’t quite catch.

She thinks about Will and Jonathan — prays that the two of them make it through the inspection unnoticed and unscathed.

It’s silly, of course.

Her sons are already quite proficient at caring for themselves, which is the best evidence that she raised them right, despite the absence of Lonnie.

Still, she finds herself pacing the length of the kitchen, while Flo puts the finishing touches on an impressive tea service.

“You’re going to wear a path into those tiles,” Flo says, amused.

Joyce chews on a thumbnail. “I’m just worried about my boys.”

Flo chuckles. “They’re two of the smartest kids I’ve ever met. They’ll be completely fine.” She pauses for a moment, studies Joyce with a look that’s difficult to decipher. “Jonathan is quite the chameleon.”

“He’s really good at observing, seeing things that other people don’t,” Joyce replies warmly. “You can’t pull the wool over his eyes, not even for a minute.”

“He gets that from you,” Flo says with a small smile, moving to rinse her hands in the sink.

Joyce blushes, feels a small surge of pride in her chest. “You should’ve seen the _hoops_ I had to jump through to keep the idea of Santa Claus alive. And he still figured it out way too early anyway.”

They share a laugh, and for an instant, it feels utterly normal, mundane even — as if they aren’t stuck in this bizarre reality together.

“Kids like Jonathan and Will are why I came here, you know.” Flo dries her hands on a small white tea towel, fidgets with the edge of it. “I didn’t have to. My retirement was long overdue by the time the US fell.” She looks at Joyce again, but her gaze is somewhere far away. “I lost my only son in Vietnam. I felt like— I don’t know, I felt like maybe I owed it to him, to help all the children that are trapped here.” She clears her throat. “They’re the future. People like me need to ensure that they get to have one.”

Joyce stares at Flo, a sobering, tidal surge of empathy and sadness slicing through her.

“Flo, I’m so sorry—”

Before she can finish, she hears Hopper shout down the hall to the kitchen.

Commander Brenner is coming.

They glance at each other, the moment cut short.

Silently, they leave the room and walk down the hallway, side by side.

Joyce touches Flo’s shoulder and squeezes gently, then drops her hand back to her side.

The awful truth, the one she’s tried very hard to deny, has shown it’s terrible face.

Flo is prepared to do whatever it takes, no matter what happens to her.

They all are.

 

* * *

 

Commander Brenner and his contingent arrive rather unceremoniously, pulling up the long drive in an understated black car with tinted windows. A black Humvee follows close behind.

For someone of his rank and importance, it seems almost… unusual.

Everyone waits in the foyer.

The room is tense, the thickness of it almost suffocating.

Hopper, Powell, and Callahan are front and center, while Joyce and Flo stand off to the side, near the hallway that leads to the kitchen.

“Remember — just nod and smile,” Flo says quietly. “We’re like furniture to these men. The sooner they leave to inspect the Academy, the better.”

The door opens, and Commander Brenner steps into the house.

Joyce feels her blood run cold.

_This country is long overdue for some strict order. No more chaos — much too messy, of course._

The man who spoke those words almost two years ago now stands a mere ten feet in front of her.

He looks the same as he did then — longish white hair that’s brushed back off his face, and icy blue eyes — handsome, in his own odd, rakish way.

He greets Hopper with a firm handshake, a smile that seems genuine; returns the dual salutes from Callahan and Powell.

Three Angels, also heavily armed, enter the house behind him. They salute Hopper mechanically, which he returns without hesitation.

Brenner’s gaze alights on Joyce and Flo for only a moment before he begins exchanging pleasantries with Hopper. They talk like old friends, comrades from a battle long ago.

A fourth person steps into the foyer, and that’s when Joyce notices that the security detail includes someone who doesn’t quite belong.

The fourth person is a child.

A girl.

She’s young, maybe around Will’s age, with a thin frame and dark brown hair that’s pulled back into a tight bun. She wears an armored uniform that resembles the standard Angel armor, except it’s colored in white and black.

The number 011 is printed in red on her shoulder.

Joyce should look away, but she can’t — it’s like she’s transfixed, unable to move.

The girl turns her head and briefly meets Joyce’s gaze, and the world suddenly tilts on its axis.

The memory is stunningly clear in her mind’s eye — a forbidden photograph, a child with curly brown hair, a radiant and joyful smile.

 _I have a daughter,_ Terry whispers, echoing, echoing, staring back at her in the shadows of the gymnasium.

_Her name is Jane._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. Welcome to the New Republic, El.


	21. twenty-one.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> She doesn’t believe in God, but she prays for her sons. Prays for the other women here with her. Prays for herself.
> 
> Maybe someone will listen.
> 
> Jopper/Stranger Things AU - Handmaid's Tale.

 

 

A strange hush settles over the foyer after Jane steps inside the house.

The shift in energy is palpable, even if none of them acknowledge it out loud.

Callahan and Powell look at each other nervously, a quick and silent exchange that seems to border on telepathic.

Hopper, predictably, doesn’t react. He continues talking with Brenner as if Jane doesn’t exist.

Jane stands at attention next to Brenner’s three Angels. She glances around, her face neutral and expression completely blank. If it weren’t for her rigid, tense posture, one might assume she was a normal, bored teenager.

Internally, Joyce is reeling — dizzy with recognition and panic and astonishment.

Luckily, Brenner doesn’t seem to notice anything. In fact, he seems pleased — effusive even — at the progress Hopper has made with the Academy.

The two Commanders adjourn to the study, along with their respective security teams, while Joyce and Flo return to the kitchen.

They both begin preparing to move the elaborate tea service into the study.

There are several drawn out minutes of silence, and then Flo dares to break it.

“A long time ago, Hopper told me about an experimental program Brenner wanted to initiate — the Eyes of God,” Flo says under her breath, her voice very nearly a whisper. “Teenagers and children as spies, assassins. I always thought it was bullshit, but to see it firsthand is… well.” She nudges her glasses up her nose slightly, then sniffs. “The western route to California is still too fragmented. We’re not supposed to be moving kids out of here for another few months yet. That will have to change.”

Joyce nods, doesn’t dare to breathe a word in response.

Her mind constantly replays images of Jane’s face — a face that she both knows so well and doesn’t know at all.

She automatically moves the fine china plates to an antique food cart.

Her thoughts are a blur —  she wonders where Terry is, wonders what Terry would think if she knew what Brenner had done to her daughter.

The answer is so unbelievably simple.

Commander Brenner is responsible for everything wrong with the twisted society they now reside in.

He’s responsible for all the children torn away from their parents, the loss of innocence that comes along with it.

Responsible for the streamlined weaponization of every able man and boy.

Responsible for the commodification of every woman — young and old and everywhere in between.

Joyce pushes the tea and food on a cart down the hall toward the study, that molten fury heavy in her chest once again.

It’s almost hard to take a breath, knowing that she’ll have to share the same air as that monstrous man.

 _If only I could spit poison,_ she thinks, approaching the closed double doors. _I would drown in my own venom to make sure he’s punished for everything he’s done._

There is faint, murmured conversation from the other side of the doors.

She raises her hand, knocks once, twice.

“Come in,” Hopper — no, the Commander — says.

She enters the study.

 

* * *

 

Joyce carefully maneuvers the cart into the room.

There is a long side table set up along one of the bookshelves to the left of the desk, with a lacy white tablecloth draped across it — she’s to set up the tea service there, and then leave as unobtrusively as possible.

She presses her lips together into a thin line, makes sure she’s careful to keep her eyes focused ahead of her, but peers around the study through her peripheral vision.

Hopper is seated behind the desk, his hands folded in front of him.

The Angels of both personal security teams are lingering near the back of the study. She can feel Callahan and Powell watching her every move, and is distinctly thankful for their presence.

Brenner is sitting in Joyce’s favorite chair, entirely too relaxed. It makes her bristle with quiet irritation.

Jane stands just behind him, a shadow in black and white.

“Where were we?” Brenner’s voice is smooth, evenly-pitched, and utterly unnerving. “Ah yes. Allow me to introduce the first successful candidate of the Eye program. This is Eleven.”

Jane steps forward and stands rigidly at attention, her hands clasped behind her back. She has her chin tilted up slightly, her shoulders squared.

Her posture makes her look older and almost menacing, in a way.

 _Eleven? Her name isn’t a number,_ Joyce thinks, moving quickly to set out the various serving dishes of food on the long side table.

“I didn’t realize you’d initiated the Eye program already,” she hears Hopper say cautiously. He’s using a tone of voice she’s heard solely when he’s entrenched deep within the Commander role — authoritative, cold, controlled. “We’ve only just begun our preliminary testing in the past month. I’ve barely been able to find suitable candidates in such a short time, yet you have a fully fledged Eye of God, ready to be mobilized?”

Brenner laughs. The sound of it echoes off the high ceiling of the study.

“You think I’d let you establish the Academy without viable proof that our procedures work?”

Joyce arranges the serving platters and bowls just so — careful to make little noise, careful to keep her eyes on the task at hand and only that — and listens intently.

“With all due respect, Martin, we haven’t even finalized the curriculum for the training of Angel candidates. The Eyes of God are a completely different story. Most of the protocols we’d researched were pseudoscience, at best.” Hopper sounds skeptical, but he speaks in a deferential manner to Brenner. “Brainwashing, mind control, sleeper agents — Owens and I have reviewed thousands of pages of studies that indicate it’s all—”

“Let me prove it to you,” Brenner interrupts, his pleasant tone suddenly sharp and edged with something that Joyce can't quite put a name to. “Once you see the results in action, you’ll have no doubts that this is the best possible way to prevent dissent.”

“Of course, of course. Once we’re done with the inspection—”

“This will be during the inspection,” Brenner says, cutting Hopper off again.

“I’m sorry— what?”

“It will be a demonstration for the students, something for all of them to aspire to,” Brenner continues, his tone even and diplomatic once more. “To become an Eye of God is an honor. The training involved is rigorous. Deep dedication is required. Eleven can attest to that.”

In Joyce's peripheral vision, Jane nods curtly.

 _Time to go,_ Joyce thinks to herself. She moves to push the cart out of the study, keeping her gaze on the double doors.

“Wait— I’d like for you to join us.” Brenner’s command rings out across the room, and even though no distinguishing remark is made, Joyce knows exactly who he’s talking to.

She stops in her tracks, slowly turns.

Brenner is looking right at her, his expression smug. “Please join us, Ofjames. For the meal and the inspection, of course.”

She steals a brief glance past Brenner at Hopper.

The Commander mask falters for the smallest sliver of an instant — she can see it in his face, the fractional widening of his eyes, the twitch of the muscles in his jaw.

 _Stick to your role,_ she mentally reminds him, even though he can't hear her. _He might be good at sniffing out traitors, but I’m good at hiding in plain sight._

Joyce fluidly and easily performs that stupid little curtsy. She clasps her hands together at her waist afterward, trains her eyes on the ground.

“Of course, Commander. I’ll do whatever you want me to do.”

 

* * *

 

Surprisingly, it isn’t difficult to maintain her composure through the entire meal and subsequent discussions.

Joyce sits in one of the chairs near the desk, gracefully declines the food with a demure shake of her head.

The conversation between Hopper and Brenner meanders, long and leisurely, from one topic to another. It’s mostly redundant discussions of boring government business, with occasional updates on different sectors in the New Republic.

Joyce feigns vacant disinterest in the conversation, but she carefully listens, files everything away. Hopper is fond of her ability to recall conversations with nearly perfect verbatim accuracy.

After several minutes of this, she realizes that Hopper is discreetly leading Brenner on with his choice of topics.

 _Clever,_ she thinks. _Very clever._

Then Brenner strikes unexpectedly.

“Ofjames,” he begins, his tone casual. “You’ve been assigned here for three months now. How are you liking your accommodations?”

Her stomach twists uncomfortably as she meets his gaze.

Joyce wonders if he remembers her, from the strange group interrogation at the school.

If he does, he gives no indication.

“They’re very lovely. Much more lovely than I expected,” she responds, controlling her voice. “I’m incredibly grateful.”

“I’m glad to hear that,” he says, “but still nothing?” His eyes drop to her waistline. She can feel his eyes burning holes through the fabric of her red dress.

Joyce doesn’t dare look to Hopper.

“Sadly, I’m afraid not. I’m hopeful that the next Ceremony will be successful.” She internally admires her own ability to lie so convincingly, admires the way her voice wavers at just the right moment.

“For your sake, I should hope it is,” Brenner says, with a strange smile. “I have faith in Commander Hopper. He’s one of our best.”

Her cheeks begin to warm slightly at the memory of Hopper’s fingers tracing letters on her bare skin, but she banishes it to the back of her mind — now is not the time.

“Yes he is, Commander,” she says. “I’m very fortunate to have been assigned here.”

Her response seems to please him.

Satisfied, Brenner turns back to Hopper.

Just like that, he moves on.

Just like that, she’s forgotten, ignored.

She lets out a silent breath of relief — but something tickles at her subconscious, as if she’s still being watched.

Joyce glances to her right, suddenly makes clear and unmistakable eye contact with Jane.

Jane doesn’t avert her gaze — simply stares, unblinking.

It’s strange and profound, almost... confidential in a way, as if Joyce is being invited to peer around a locked gate — a gate located somewhere behind those dark brown eyes.

Eyes that remind her so much of Terry.

There’s an abrupt, minute shift in Jane’s rigid posture and her expression changes slightly for the briefest moment—

Then she looks away.

The bizarre connection between them is severed, and Joyce finds herself shivering, even though the room is almost uncomfortably warm.

Goosebumps rise along the skin of her arms, and she curls her fingers into her palms, clenches her fists to keep from visibly shuddering.

Something about Jane feels off — displaced, in a way — like a photograph that has a barely visible distortion to it.

 _I was forced to come here too,_ Terry whispers from the depths of her memory. _Jane and I were almost to Canada. He took her from me._

The rest of that night comes roaring to the surface — the night when Joyce saw Jane’s picture for the first time, held it in her hands.

She hadn’t thought anything of it before, and why would she?

Terry was just another casualty of the New Republic, an ordinary woman plucked from the masses to reproduce for the good of the country — and she'd had been all too content to let Joyce believe that notion.

Now the puzzle pieces begin to fall into place, one by one.

_Is this why he took her?_

_Is this why you tried to escape?_

_Because he was making her into some kind of weapon for the New Republic?_

She remembers how Terry had looked away guiltily that night; remembers her subsequent refusals in the following months to answer any further questions about Jane, and why she'd been taken.  

There’s a thread, a link — shining and brilliant — that rapidly coalesces from the midst of all the memories and chaos.

It starts at Jane and reaches all the way back to that awful gymnasium, back to that single, whispered conversation.

 _Who were you, Terry?_ Joyce wonders. _What were you doing with Brenner before all of this?_

For the first time in months, Terry’s voice is silent.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i. So very sorry for the delay on this, folks! My laptop was having some major problems, and it's currently the busy season at my job, so I've had very little personal time. I've been tapping this out on the train (when I'm not dozing off, lol) and wherever else I can.  
> ii. Plus, my muse decided to take a little hiatus, which I was none too pleased about. >:(  
> iii. I've debated with myself many times about Eleven/El/Jane and her powers in this universe (and also discussed with other fanfic writers, like starmaammke - she's a life saver!). As a result, I've decided that El is going to have no powers in this universe, but I do have a taste for the supernatural, so there are going to be slightly unexplained happenings and easter egg references to her origins in the ST universe. Keep an eye out for them. :)  
> iv. This also applies to the Byers family... they all seem pretty supernaturally linked in ST, they'll remain so in this universe as well. Plus, it's a fanfiction. Anything can happen.


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